Homerun Part 3 The Finish Curve
by AAmuse
Summary: What happens when you take one particular friendship several steps too far? - COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer**: All Star Trek characters belong to Paramount. Jessica Quaint belongs to me. I am doing this for fun, not for money.

**Author's note:** This is the third part in _The Homerun_ trilogy. Although the first two parts created some of its background, it can still be read separately, with no great discomfort. Important to know: Jessica Quaint is a Beta Shift science officer, who had served with Spock before Kirk took command. She and three other female characters (Uhura, Chapel, Rand) had a peculiar adventure somewhere in the past, which made them close friends (Part 2. The Split). The time frame is mid second season.

_Warning_: this is still an adventure story, but I must confess that I have for once indulged my own inclination towards relationship-centered storyline, and if emotionalism is not your preference, you'd be wise to skip this. I should have been stronger, but (sigh) what have you.

**Note of gratitude:** Any feedback much appreciated. Special thanks to SLWatson for support, rendered despite my many flaws, and invaluable advice.

**Codes: **K&S, S&M, Sc, U, ensemble. General/Adventure/Drama/Friendship.

**Summary**: What happens when you take one particular friendship several steps too far?

**HOMERUN**

Part 3. **The Finish Curve**

By Anna Amuse

**Prologue**

Automatically, he looked in the mirror and frowned. The expression was becoming him, the color was not. The color looked weird. It was, if anything, too cheerful, too optimistic. He felt neither. It had been a week since he was obliged to wear this color. A week was not too short a time to get used to a simple change like that. Everyone else seemed fine with it, and he, most certainly, showed no sign of his own misgivings. But he had them, unreasonable as it was, though certainly not regarding the color, but rather what it represented.

If McCoy knew how he felt, the Doctor would have been ecstatic in chiding him. That is, if his CMO was still on speaking terms with him, which did not seem very likely. The last time they spoke, it definitely didn't sound friendly or even professionally respectful. He found that it was harder for him to deal with the former, than with the latter. After all, respect wasn't something the good Doctor demonstrated on regular basis. He had never thought he would miss the continuous nagging or glancing over his shoulder, and yet he did. This week seemed to be full of unpleasant discoveries.

The door chimed softly, and he turned to utter gravely:

"Enter."

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott stepped in, glancing around warily, before focusing his attention on his commanding officer.

"Ye've asked me to report when the engines are restored to full capacity, Captain," he said.

"I take it they are, Mr. Scott?"

"Aye, sir," he squirmed visibly under the continuous scrutiny.

The silence was becoming uncomfortable.

"You demonstrate signs of fatigue, Mr. Scott," the Captain observed finally. "Be sure you rest for at least six hours before returning to duty. That will be all."

"Aye, sir."

The Engineer started for the door, then, looked back, hesitating. Watching this familiar figure, rigid from unprecedented tension, he was suddenly awfully close to experiencing something he had never felt towards this person before – deep, burning compassion.

"If ye don't mind me sayin' so, sir, ye look mighty tired yerself."

There was no reply. Well aware he was playing with fire, Scotty stepped back in, just a bit, unable to stop himself.

"Ye had done what was necessary, Captain. It's no yer fault."

A sharp glance thrown at him made him shudder.

"Isn't it? What would you have done, had you been in my place, Mr. Scott?"

Damn. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Scotty shrugged helplessly.

"I don't know, sir."

"No, Mr. Scott. I didn't think that you would."

Suppressing a sigh, Scotty staggered back into the corridor, letting the door shut with a soft hiss. The Captain of the _Enterprise_ stood once again alone in the semi-darkness. As he reached to turn the rotating shell back in order, his eyes caught a glimpse of his own reflection once more – a dark shadow clad in gold velour. He complied with his orders. Two stripes on his sleeves were the only indulgence he allowed himself to maintain, as if signaling to the world around him that he did not want to be here, not in this capacity, not like that. He felt a grimace of pain creasing his strict features, as he stared in the mirror. His appearance allowed almost any color to suit him easily. Yet, somehow, gold simply didn't _want_ to fit.

With a decisive gesture of his hand, he slapped the mirror to face the wall. The color of one's uniform had actually very little to do with one's true colors. The revelation still rendered him pain and desolation, no matter how many hours he spent in meditation.

"Am I my brother's keeper?" Spock whispered softly. "Was I?"

But the soulless darkness held no answer for him that night. No answer and no hope. Only silence.


	2. In the Shadow

**Chapter 1**

**In the Shadow**

The Briefing Room of Starbase 23 was slowly filled by Starfleet officers, taking their places around the long table, getting ready for the quarterly strategic conference. It was a regular – or as regular as Starfleet Command could make it – meeting of senior officers to discuss the current situation within each sector, receive new orders and sometimes give reports on the missions accomplished, if the Command viewed them worthy of broader attention. Before the conference had begun, however, the officers, many of whom knew each other back from the Academy days, used the rare and all too valuable occasion to catch up.

Captain Kirk was a lively heart of one such group that had gathered around his chair quite naturally. This group was by far the brightest, the biggest and the merriest in the Briefing Room. Kirk was very jovial and engaging, representing the perfect picture of Starfleet luckiest and most charming captain.

To his left, his First Officer was sitting, with his back turned on the chatting people, as he studied his pad, frowning. Although he was sitting in close proximity to his Captain – their shoulders were an inch from touching – nobody paid him any attention, including Captain Kirk himself as it seemed. However, when Spock turned to him with a soft 'Captain,' spoken considerably quieter than the jokes thrown at him, Kirk nodded almost imperceptibly, and, turning half way toward him, peered over his shoulder at the pad, his eyes catching instantly the paragraph Spock had highlighted. For an instant, an expression of grim seriousness clouded Kirk's face, but it was fleeting in passing. He nodded again, returning his attention to his colleagues, who hardly noticed him being momentary distracted.

Satisfied with making sure the Captain was now fully briefed, Spock glanced around the room automatically, and suddenly his eyes met the veiled, calculating gaze of Admiral Lewton, Chief of Starfleet Intelligence. Apparently, the Admiral had been watching him for quite some time, for he now nodded slowly and meaningfully to Spock, who nodded back just as slowly, though feeling at a loss to understand this sudden interest. As if pleased with his response, Lewton looked away.

"Ten-hut!" the duty officer commanded, announcing the arrival of Admiral Cartwright.

The officers quickly walked to their own seats, standing at attention by them. Those who were sitting stood up.

"At ease," Cartwright said, with an ever present grim expression on his face. "Please sit down."

They did. A usual for such occurrences silence fell down upon the group of Starfleet finest, until broken again by Cartwright.

"The major topic for us today is establishing a normal routine in dealing with the Klingons. After the Organian Treaty," he glanced at Kirk briefly, "they have gotten into habit of issuing demands at least once a week on some unsubstantial but disturbing matters. There are several worlds in the so-called Neutral Zone, which have recently asked for our help, mostly in humanitarian fields. The problem is – those worlds are regarded as part of the Klingon dominion by the Klingon High Council. It does present a certain difficulty in dealing with these newly risen emergencies."

"Do they know we've been contacted by the natives?" Captain Tolini asked.

"Apparently. They have contacted our representative on some, shall we say, informal channel, expressing their concerns. We are, of course, going anyway."

"In force?" somebody asked.

"Not exactly. It's been suggested to send one ship in the area, but the one the Klingons would think twice before attacking. I'm naturally talking about the _Enterprise_, Jim."

Everyone turned to look at Kirk. The Captain nodded curtly, evidently expecting this.

"I'm afraid I can't give you a lot of details on the region," Cartwright said. "Our data is sporadic at most."

"Maybe we can compare notes, then," Kirk suggested. "Mr. Spock."

"The region in question consists of approximately twelve inhabited worlds," the Vulcan replied readily, in a deep calm voice that carried easily throughout the room. "Population is mostly humanoid, with the exception of Garad Seven; the Klingon constituency is also present, but we have reasons to believe they are not military personnel, for those worlds were never considered worthy of conquering. It looks more like civilian settlements, established for those unwilling or unable to fight. The Klingon High Council had denounced those people, but their presence there now gives them the right to claim the worlds as Klingon protectorates."

He was listened to with utmost attention. Frowning, Cartwright threw a glance at Lewton, whose expression was calm and enigmatic. He was watching Spock fixedly.

"If that's so, they would undoubtedly accuse us in interfering with internal affairs," Captain Boldin noted.

"I am most unwilling to contradict you, sir," Spock said, "but, should they do that, they will have no legal grounds for such accusations. The worlds in question were not defined in the Organian Treaty as Klingon worlds. Therefore, they would have needed our consent to proclaim them to be part of the Klingon Empire."

"So what? Until recently I've never heard us giving a damn about these worlds anyway. They do not represent a strategic advantage, that's probably why the Klingons weren't interested in them in the first place."

Spock frowned slightly. "If I may be so bold, Captain, as to point out that there are advantages of a different nature than respective location of a planet."

Boldin looked confused and not happy about it, but, before he could ask further questions, Admiral Lewton spoke.

"What Commander Spock means, I believe, is that should the Klingons ask us to consider those worlds their territory, they know we would likely agree – if _they_ agree to consider some other worlds fall under our jurisdiction."

"Precisely," Spock nodded. "The Klingons are undoubtedly aware that the Federation had expressed interest in the Courinara system, for instance. They would not want to jeopardize its neutral status."

"Thus, the humanitarian mission is possible," Kirk took over smoothly. "And we are of course at your disposal, Admiral. In fact, if you'd decided to send any other ship, I'd be very disappointed."

"I don't doubt it," Cartwright said grimly. "But I had my concerns, Captain. Your mission to Organia was not, shall we say, entirely by the book."

"Admiral, due respect, had it not been for my mission, we would still had been at open war with the Klingons."

"I'm very well aware of that, Captain. But I suggest you give some thought to the fact that if the Organians were not inclined to demonstrate their powers, or if they had possessed none, you would have failed spectacularly and not only gotten killed yourself, but endangered the whole sector."

"It is illogical to dwell on what had not happened, Admiral."

Cartwright looked at the speaker scornfully.

"I'd really think _you_ of all people should be silent right now, Mr. Spock. I must say I'm surprised at you. How such _logical_ being as yourself could let your Captain proceed with such irresponsible course of action, is beyond my comprehension."

Spock frowned, but refrained from speaking this time, accepting the reprimand.

"May I propose, Admiral, that the other ships currently assigned to this sector will readjust their respective missions in a pattern that would easily put them within reach from the Neutral Zone?" Kirk said, ignoring the attack at his First Officer.

Cartwright glanced around the table, clearly fishing for opinions.

"I think it's reasonable, sir," Captain Sanders said, getting nods of approval from her colleagues.

"All right," Cartwright agreed. "Any other suggestions?"

Kirk glanced sideways at Spock, who tapped his fingers soundlessly on the table.

"We might want to implore a new security code for communications," Kirk suggested. "Just in case the Klingons have broken the last one."

"A new code?" Cartwright looked thoroughly displeased at the idea, thinking of all the measures involved. "We have no proof to support the claim that the current one is broken. Aren't you overreacting?"

Kirk met his second-in-command's gaze briefly, silently asking him the same question. Spock's glance drifted towards the pad he'd been examining before the meeting, and then back to Kirk. The whole exchange only took a split second. The Captain looked at the Admiral, without a hint of a doubt in his eyes.

"We have reasons to believe such measure to be absolutely necessary," he stated firmly.

"I believe Captain Kirk is right," Admiral Lewton put in calmly, looking mildly amused. "It's the Klingons we're talking about. You can never take too much precaution."

"Very well," Cartwright pursed his lips stubbornly. "Any other suggestions, anyone? Captain Kirk?"

"We seem to have covered everything," Kirk replied.

"Then, this meeting is adjourned. You'll all going to receive your final orders before 1600 today. Dismissed."

He walked out of the room, listening to the common buzz of discussion, a natural follow-up of such meetings. The officers continued to talk as they proceeded slowly to the reception area, which, at a peaceful time, was common to host a small party for the participants of the conference. Kirk strode in, surrounded more vastly than ever by his peers, who seem to need his presence more than his taking actual part in the conversation. After a while, he managed to extract himself from the circle without notice, and crept away, trying not to attract any attention to his maneuver.

"A drink, Captain?"

Kirk jumped, whirling around, but the next moment exhaled with relief.

"Barty," he greeted his old friend, Captain Hardvest. "I was wondering when you were gonna show up."

"I didn't want to interfere with your fan-club," Hardvest grinned. "Here, you seem to need it."

"Thanks," Kirk nodded, accepting a glass of scotch. "How have you been, Barty? I lost track of you for a while."

"Yes, well, here and there," Hardvest replied evasively. "You know I can't really talk about it."

"Yes, you intelligence boys like to keep your secrets, don't you?" Kirk said with a pleasant smile. "How're Rose and Sydney?"

"Blooming," Hardvest beamed at the mention of his kids. "They're with their mother on Antares. Raving about the Sky Falls."

"I'd say."

"So, Jim, you've managed to get yourself the toughest piece again?"

"What, the Klingons? I don't think it'd be logical to send anyone else, with the Organia mission and all."

"Oh, yes, completely illogical," Hardvest nodded with a serious expression on his face. "But I'll still say be careful, Jim."

"That's not in your character to give idle warnings, Barty," Kirk looked at him pointedly. A smile, though still present on his lips, became tense. "What do you know?"

"I don't know anything specific, Jim, it's just gut instinct."

"Gut instinct? Oh, God, not her."

"What?" Barty stared at him, confused. "Who?"

"Lillian Monde," Jim groaned.

Hardvest grinned wryly. "Is she still after you?"

"So it would seem. Oh hell, she's noticed me."

They both turned to watch, one with amusement, the other with desperation, as an attractive woman in command gold was making her way to them swiftly. She was some mere ten feet from them, already starting to smile, when suddenly she bumped into something, or rather someone, firm and immovable, and was nearly knocked off her feet.

"My sincere apologies, Commander," Spock said, his hands catching her just in time. "I was not looking where I was going."

"That's all right," she stammered, apparently mesmerized by the way he was holding her in plain view of the whole room. She smiled at him. "I don't suppose I was either."

"Commander," he said, letting go off her slowly. "Perhaps it was fortunate that our failure to pay attention has brought us together. I was hoping to find a dance partner, and I can hardly imagine anyone more skillful in this area than you."

"Really, Mr. Spock?" she asked excitedly, blushing furiously. "I always suspected you're a charmer, but I didn't know that you danced."

"If I may be permitted to correct that omission, then?" he offered her a hand.

"With pleasure," she took it, letting him steer her away in the direction of the dance floor.

"Thank God," Jim let out a sigh of pure relief.

"Thank Spock, I think," Hardvest commented with a smirk. "As always, in the right place, in the right time. If you'd started lending his services, you'd be a rich man by now."

"He's not my property, Barty," Kirk frowned, watching his friend navigating his partner through the complicated dance figures with elegant confidence and inborn grace, and thinking that it was a sacrifice on Spock's part that he was hardly capable of returning.

"I meant no offence, Jim. But his devotion to you is uncanny. I can't imagine what an insolent golden boy like you might have done to deserve it."

"Yeah, well, to tell you the truth, I can't either."

"He wouldn't be interested in a transfer, by any chance?"

Kirk glanced sideways at him, his face unreadable.

"I don't believe he could correlate his ethics with the common nature of your missions, Barty."

"Hm," Hardvest looked dubious. "That's not what I hear. Anyway, he's the prize of the day, and if you ever want to release him, please remember who your friends are," his voice was pleasant and casual, but the expression in his eyes was dead serious. "You could ask _any_ favor."

"I think I'd better dash before this dance is over," Kirk said, finishing his glass in one gulp. "Was nice seeing you, Barty. Take care."

"You too. Good luck, Jim."

Kirk waved his hand, without looking back.

--

"It was that bad, huh?" McCoy asked, pouring himself a glass, and staring through it at the Captain.

They were in Kirk's quarters. It was late in the ship's night, but neither one felt like sleeping.

"Not really," Kirk shook his head, taking a sip from his own glass. "Spock and I have more or less gathered we'd be sent on this mission. It was hardly a surprise."

"I heard Cartwright spanked him in front of everyone."

Kirk made a face. "Cartwright thinks he can only trust me with a ship as long as Spock is here to watch over me."

McCoy hid his grin in his drink, muttering, "Wonder what makes him think that."

The doors of the Captain's cabin swooshed open, and Spock walked in, looking mildly tired and subdued.

"Good evening, Captain, Doctor."

"Evening, Spock," Kirk nodded to him, frowning as he noted how unwell his friend looked. "Have a seat."

"Brandy?" McCoy asked him slyly.

"No, thank you."

"Come now, Spock, I heard you had a drink at the reception."

"That is exactly why I consider another one to be excessive, Doctor."

"Bones, the number of things you've heard, bearing in mind that you haven't even been there, is quite astonishing."

McCoy looked pensive for a moment.

"Thank you, I think."

Kirk shook his head in exasperation, then, turned to his First Officer.

"What do you think of it, Spock?"

"The mission, sir? I believe I have stated quite clearly during the meeting that I consider it to be legally soundproof –"

"Spock," Kirk raised a hand to stop him. "I've been there, remember? I'm asking what you really think."

Spock was silent for a while. Kirk waited patiently. After having to wear a mask for the better part of the day, he had no desire to continue pretending. He only wished Spock could relax a bit, too, for the Vulcan seemed uncharacteristically tense, even as he stippled his fingers pensively, deep in his inner reflections.

"This mission will undoubtedly present a challenge," Spock said finally. "In more ways than one."

"Seems pretty routine to me," Kirk intoned casually. "What's your concern?"

Spock frowned.

"I find the timing of these appeals for assistance to be somewhat unnatural."

"Unnatural?" McCoy asked in disbelief. "What's so unnatural in calling for help when you need it?"

"Doctor, the situation on these worlds has been difficult for approximately ten point two years. Yet, they have never issued a request for assistance before."

"You think it's a provocation?" Kirk asked.

"There is this possibility," Spock nodded grimly. "There could be others."

"So you say we shouldn't go?" the Doctor fumed. "Leave these poor people to their own devices because we're not entirely sure they're trustworthy?"

"I suggested no such thing, Doctor. The Captain did ask me to share my concerns."

"He's not the only one who thinks there's more to it than what Starfleet Command is telling us," Kirk noted. "I've had a funny conversation with Barty Hardvest."

"Really?" McCoy looked at him in surprise. "I didn't know Barty was in the vicinity. What's bothering him, anyway?"

"He didn't specify," Kirk shook his head. "Merely told me to be careful."

"Captain Hardvest belongs to the Intelligence division," Spock mused. "Perhaps he is aware of certain circumstances we are not. Did he say anything else of importance?"

"Funny you should ask," Kirk smiled at him, but the smile never reached his eyes. "He wouldn't shut up about you."

"Me?" Spock blinked. "Have I done something to dissatisfy the Captain?"

"On the contrary, he was very complimentary about you," Kirk's gaze became palpably piercing. "The way you rescued me from Commander Monde, in particular. I didn't get a chance to thank you."

Spock stared at him blankly.

"You have nothing to thank me for, Captain. I was merely interested in dancing and–"

McCoy snorted. "You've never been interested in dancing in your life, Spock."

"Indeed, Doctor. There was a period in my early childhood when I found the process quite fascinating."

"I can't imagine."

"Gentlemen," Kirk interrupted the course of their usual banter which was about to begin. "Spock, are you saying we shouldn't go?"

"No, Captain. I am saying we should proceed with caution. I, too, had a number of – peculiar - conversations while at the Starbase, which kept me wondering –"

"Really?" Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Who did you talk to?"

"Captain Sanders, Captain Poullin, Captain Ibrahim-Cha, Captain Delier, Captain Kim, Captain Farrell -"

McCoy nearly spilled his drink laughing at the look on Jim's face, and hastily waved Spock to silence.

"I think he's got the picture by now, Spock."

"Spock, did you talk to every single person on the station?" Kirk asked, staring at him incredulously.

"I do not believe I did, sir."

"I don't think he's gonna elaborate, Jim," McCoy noted after a while, which was filled only with silence.

"Evidently," Kirk agreed, folding his arms across his chest. "Which makes me worry about the contents of those conversations. Care to enlighten us, Commander?"

Unexpectedly, Spock stood up, clasping his hands behind his back, looking at his Captain impassively.

"Sir, are you dissatisfied with my services?"

"What the hell–?" Kirk gaped at him.

"I thought that perhaps you did not wish to address the matter directly and were therefore using alternate channels of communicating your displeasure."

"Spock, what, in God's name, are you talking about? Bones? Does it make any sense to you?"

"I'm starting to think that even one drink was fairly more than his share," McCoy noted.

"Then, you are not dissatisfied?" Spock specified calmly.

"No," Kirk stated, his eyes never releasing Spock's. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

There was a slight, barely detectable motion coming over Spock's features, as if a tiniest transparent veil had been swiftly removed. For an unprepared observer, there was nothing to notice even, but Captain Kirk could under no circumstances fall into this category. He noticed, and he frowned.

"The idea was conveyed to me by several officers of whom I spoke earlier," Spock explained, his stance relaxing slightly. "Apparently, they were under the impression that my expertise was not ranking up to your standards."

"And you thought they've gotten that impression from me?" Kirk's face became positively dark, as he glared at the Vulcan.

"That seemed to be a logical possibility, sir."

"I don't believe it," no longer capable of remaining still, the Captain began to pace, in what small room his cabin allowed for the activity. "Spock, I honestly don't believe it. How can you know me so well, and believe that there's any credence to any such talk? How could you ever believe that, had there been any truth in it, I would leave it to a third party to inform you? Do I look like that kind of a person to you?"

"Captain, I–"

"How, for that matter, could you possibly believe that I'm displeased with you – with _you_ of all people? I thought we understand each other! Hell, Spock, at certain times, you're reading my thoughts, word for word! How many times did it save both our skins and the ship? I can't even remember! Yet, here you are listening to what some strangers tell you about the way I see you – and you believe them!"

"Jim," McCoy was watching his face, red now with anger, with obvious concern. "Calm down."

"Calm down? Calm down, Bones?" he stopped his pacing to face Spock again. "Tell me, Commander, have you ever seen me being dishonest with any of my men regarding their performance?"

"No, sir," Spock said quietly.

"Have you ever seen me hesitant in taking measures to improve the performance of any of my crew?"

"No, sir."

"'No, sir,'" Kirk mimicked him with a grimace. "Yet, you believed that bunch of old sly devils when it was you they were talking about."

"I did not say I believed them, sir," Spock's voice fell another decibel. "I merely realized I should clarify the issue. They had, after all, no objective to deceive me."

"No objective?" Kirk stared at him in amazement. "No objective? Let me guess, Mr. Spock. After they threw you that little hint, no doubt with all due sympathy, they happen to mention that should you ever wish to transfer they would be more than happy to offer you a position?"

Spock's eyes snapped wide open in a momentary stroke of astonishment before he could get his reaction under control.

"That is exactly what happened, sir. How did you know?"

Even McCoy grinned, and Kirk laughed out loud.

"And you, my logical friend, didn't see this coming? Spock, you're the best first officer in the whole goddamned fleet. Don't get me wrong, I'm mad as hell at those bastards for trying, these things are simply _not done_. But I can't really say I blame them. Maybe if I were in their place, I'd throw the ethics to the winds as well, and try to seduce you into transferring, too."

"Seduce me, Captain?"

"With all the missions to the farthest corners of the galaxy, research possibilities, discoveries on the horizon – anything rings a bell?"

"I do see your point, Captain, thank you. I am sorry."

"Damn right, you should be. I'm surprised at you, Spock. Where was all your intelligence? Couldn't you see what they were getting at?"

The Vulcan had the grace to look distinctly embarrassed.

"I have no explanation, sir, except perhaps for the possibility of me being taken off guard with the enchanting prospects."

Kirk's eyes narrowed again in suspicion.

"Wait a minute. Don't tell me you were tempted?"

"I–"

"All right," McCoy stood up abruptly and set his glass on the desk. "That's it."

"Where're you going, Bones?"

"I'm turning in. If family fights were my favorite sport, I would never have divorced."

"Coward," Kirk threw at him.

"Really, Doctor. When any sort of fight is concerned, you are invaluable to provide a most fascinating insight."

"Spock," standing at the door, McCoy turned to look at him sourly. "If you think you can soften me up enough to make me forget our appointment tomorrow, think again. My office, 8 a.m. sharp. Don't glare at me, Jim, he'll only be late by an hour."

"But–"

"Another word from either of you – and I'll make it two."

"Doctor, I cannot imagine that someone even with a mind as sadistic as yours could invent enough tests to occupy another hour."

"You're better off," Kirk told him grimly. "Good-night, Bones."

As the door swooshed closed behind the Doctor, Kirk slid into a chair and looked at Spock with a gentle smile.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," he said. "But it really pains me that you have so little faith in me."

"Not in you, Captain," Spock shook his head. "It is myself that I doubt at times."

"Don't we all," Kirk shrugged, dismissing the matter. "I know it's been a long day, Mr. Spock, but would you care for a game of chess?"

Spock looked at him hesitantly, as if reluctant to refuse, but unwilling to play either.

"On the other hand," Kirk said quickly, not wanting to embarrass him, "you do have an early appointment to make. Perhaps it's best if we'd just follow the good Doctor's example."

He saw instantly that he read the situation correctly, for the expression on Spock's face was undeniably one of relief.

"I, too, think it would be best, sir. We could play tomorrow, if that is convenient."

"Absolutely."

"Then, I shall take my leave of you now. Goodnight, Captain."

"Goodnight, Mr. Spock."

But it was another hour and a half, before the Captain drifted into uneasy sleep. The conversation disturbed him for several reasons, making his decision even harder than it had been before, which he believed to be impossible. But he was a man of action, and by the time he got to his bed, the decision formed vividly in his mind, rendering him a rampaging headache. 'If it doesn't stop,' he reflected dozily, punching his pillow, 'I might beat Spock to Sick Bay after all.'


	3. Disclosed Connections

**Chapter 2**

**Disclosed Connections**

Five days went quietly by, as the _Enterprise_, refitted and refreshed, proceeded steadily, but without undue haste, towards the Neutral Zone border. The stop at Starbase 23 was brief, it did not allow extended shore leaves, but some of the crew did manage to visit the station, though only shortly.

Lieutenant Uhura wasn't one of the lucky, and Christine Chapel was, but both women wished desperately, albeit vainly, that that disruption of the ship's normal routine had never taken place at all. The prospect that had now arisen was all too unsettling for both of them, but while Christine was able to dwell upon it in the quiet sanctuary of Sick Bay, not too busy that morning, Uhura was stuck on the Bridge, obliged to present an ideal image of cool professionalism.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite work out. Her concentration was shifty, as her unpleasant, anxious thoughts created a constant distraction. She knew the Captain was not too pleased to be forced to repeat his orders, but she couldn't help it. Finally, midday approached, and Kirk had left the Bridge for a lunch break, leaving Spock in charge.

Uhura sighed inwardly with relief, some of her tension easing, but it was a dangerous illusion.

"Lieutenant."

She looked up, startled. Spock was standing beside her, watching her intently. She blushed, realizing she must have missed some order again.

"On the Bridge we cannot allow ourselves to be negligent," he informed her in a cool quiet voice.

"Yes, sir," she muttered miserably, dropping her gaze. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Will a two hours leave alleviate the reason of your emotional predicament?"

Her head snapped back up, eyes wide with amazement. She fully expected a reprimand, not the fulfillment of her dearest wish. Spock's gaze was cold and steady. He was merely taking the most logical course to ensure the top efficiency of those on the Bridge, she realized.

"Yes, sir," she almost whispered.

Paging one of the techs to watch over her station, she stood up quickly, barely managing not to run.

"Lieutenant," Spock's quiet voice stopped her half a step from the turbolift. She glanced at him warily. "It will be logical to inform me if you require assistance," he hesitated and added softly, "Even in case it is not official ship's business."

The words sank in slowly, and she paused, her eyes locked with his. Had she just thought he was cold?

"Thank you, sir."

He nodded, and returned to the inner rim of the Bridge, taking a report a yeoman handed him. Turning around on her heel, she entered the turbolift at last.

Ever since last night, when she had run into Chris, she had been uneasy. It was none of her business, and yet – wasn't it? They were friends, after all. They had faced death more than once together. If there was a chance she could help...

Experiencing a most unusual trepidation, Uhura entered Science Lab 3 warily, looking around the dimly lit room.

"Jess?" she called uncertainly.

There was no reply.

Slowly, she walked further in, pushing the doors of the study open. Quaint was sitting at the desk, staring forward unseeingly, a stylus long forgotten in her hand. Uhura reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Jess?"

Quaint jumped.

"Oh, it's you," she breathed out in relief. "Sorry. I didn't – I didn't hear you come in. What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be on duty?"

"I sneaked out," Uhura told her with a bland smile. "How are you doing, Jess?"

Quaint's eyes narrowed, and she shrugged the hand off her shoulder.

"You know." That was not a question.

"Well," Uhura blushed. "Chris told me."

Quaint shook her head, a sardonic smile playing on her lips.

"There's no decency left in the galaxy. One can't even count on doctor-patient confidentiality anymore."

"It's not like she wanted to tell me," Uhura assured her. "But she was understandably upset. I kinda... talked her into sharing."

"How tricky of you."

"Don't do this, Jess. We're your friends."

"I'm sorry," Quaint said, wrapping her arms around her, as if she were cold. "It's just – it's difficult for me, too."

Uhura's eyes were filling with tears rapidly, and she determinately blinked them away.

"When did it happen, Jess? On the station?"

Quaint nodded miserably.

"He was waiting for me to come ashore. Some trick of schedule, I guess. He approached me and I – I couldn't say no."

"Did he force you?"

Quaint shook her head sadly. "I wish he did. But I waited for so long for him to come to me like that, I couldn't turn him down. Even though I wasn't ready."

"Did you tell Mr. Spock?"

"Are you crazy? I couldn't have told him – not until we left the Starbase."

"Why?"

Quaint looked at her strangely.

"Have you ever seen an angry Vulcan?"

Uhura smiled at the idea automatically, but noticed that her friend was watching her with utmost seriousness. Evidently, this wasn't a rhetorical question. She shook her head no.

"Well, I have," Quaint said. "Once. And I would never ever want to see that again. I'd rather face a dozen angry Klingons."

"What happened?"

"We were on a diplomatic mission to Kelgaran. There was a reception, after the negotiations were concluded. While Captain Pike and the others were engaged with the Prime-minister, a couple of his advisers took me to the garden – to show some unusual flower specimen. They were, as I soon discovered, not particularly interested in nature. I was so relaxed by then, I didn't react quickly enough. They gagged me and started to... well, let's just say my uniform didn't present much if a challenge. I thought I was finished. Then, suddenly, Spock was there. It turned out later, he had been hiding in the garden throughout the whole event – never fancied spotlights. He threw those two off of me, as if they were rag dolls. The look on his face... It revived me instantly. I thought I'd been frightened before, but when I saw that look, I was scared to death. I tried to talk to him, to tell him I was fine, that they didn't really hurt me, didn't have the time, but he didn't hear me. He picked them up, as if they had no weight and marched away without a word."

"My God..." Uhura was staring at her wide-eyed with shock.

"I ran after him, but he didn't pay me any attention. There was a cliff, like a column, no more than six feet in diameter. A rope bridge leading to it. Spock carried them across the abyss, laid them down, still unconscious, walked back to me, and – and cut the ropes."

Uhura closed her eyes.

"He turned to me then, and asked calmly, as if we were still in this lab, if I was all right with walking to the beam-down point on my own, or whether he should summon a gurney."

She fell silent, deep in the disturbing memory. Uhura felt a sudden chill, going down her spine. Jessica was revealing the side of Spock she had never seen, the side she didn't know existed. It was unimaginable – and yet, somehow, it wasn't.

"Did you ever find out what happened to them?" she asked Quaint softly.

The science officer shook her head. "Not directly. Spock told me afterwards, he had informed some of the Kelgaran authorities about their whereabouts. That he had calculated the time for them to regain consciousness, and that it was enough for them to be found. But I never really knew."

"So," Uhura hesitated a bit. "He doesn't know you're going?"

"Oh, he does. I told him this morning. We ran into each other earlier, and I knew he suspected something."

"How did he take it?"

Quaint laughed sadly. "He's a Vulcan, isn't he? He wished my journey to be free of incident."

"But, Jess, you do love him... Maybe –"

"No."

Uhura sighed. "Vassant can't make you happy."

"Eventually he will. He did before. It'll come back once I'm out of here."

"Do you know where you will be going?"

"Yes. The Zentara system."

"The Zentara system?" Uhura repeated aghast. "Jess! It takes thirty years at maximum warp just to get there!"

"Thirty one point two years. Yes, I know."

"But Jess, we'll never see you again!"

"I suppose not. Oh Ny," she put her hands on Uhura's shoulders. "It's not so bad, really. Just think of the opportunities it presents for a researcher! I would never in my life encounter half the wonders and surprises here than I would in a single day there! Don't you see? I want to go. I just wish it wasn't this complicated."

Uhura sighed. "First Janice, now you. If Chris decides to transfer off or to marry some obsessed researcher, I don't know what I'll do."

"I don't think it's likely to happen," Quaint smiled at her, and Nyota finally smiled back. "Oh, I'm going to miss you."

They hugged, neither bothering to stop the streaming tears.

"We're gonna miss you too, Jess. We're gonna miss you too."

--

It was yet again late evening on the _Enterprise_, and the ship grew quieter and dimmer. In his quarters, the Captain was grudgingly going through monthly crew evaluations, the tedious task that usually made him melancholic, as he saw the necessity to rotate qualified personnel from positions where he got used to have them. As First Officer, Spock had already reviewed the files and made his own recommendations, as did McCoy, but it was up to the Captain to approve the final decision.

Sure enough, he got incredibly bored and mildly irritated by the end of second stack of files, with two and a half still to go. A break was desperately required, and he got up to his feet, trying to walk some tension in his muscles. Just as he passed his door for the second time, the buzz sounded. Kirk opened the door instantly, happy with whatever distraction might await him.

"Captain," if Spock was surprised to see him standing in the doorway, he gave no sign of it.

"Mr. Spock," Kirk smiled warmly at him. "Come on in."

The Vulcan visibly hesitated.

"Sir, I was only going to deliver these to you," he indicated another stack of data chips in his hand. "These are status reports on our last refit."

"Status reports?" Kirk asked somewhat overenthusiastically. "Sounds dramatic. Why don't you tell me all about them yourself?" he put a hand on the small of Spock's back, pressing him inside.

"Sir, I–" the Vulcan looked somewhat puzzled, but as he finally stepped in and looked at Kirk's desk, everything became clear. He glanced sideways at his Captain. "Crew evaluations, I take it, sir?"

"Indeed," Kirk walked over to his desk.

"I can see why you had to cancel our game tonight," Spock said innocently. "Forgive my intrusion, Captain. I shall not take any more of your time."

He turned towards the door, knowing full well his chances to be leaving the cabin were close to zero at this point.

"No, wait, Mr. Spock!" Kirk called hastily. "I might use a break. Besides, there was something I wanted to ask you."

"Indeed, sir?" Spock turned back, trying and failing to completely submerge his amusement.

"Yes, _indeed_, you sarcastic imp," Kirk's eyes narrowed as he picked up the Vulcan's mood easily. "Spock," dawning realization made him grin in disbelief and delight. "You are teasing me!"

Predictably, an eyebrow shot up.

"Teasing, Captain? I see no logic in this activity."

"No, but that doesn't stop you anyway, does it? You're becoming good at it, too. For a moment there, you almost had me."

Spock's face was unreadable, only his eyes glinting with warmth.

"What was it you wanted to ask me, Captain?"

"It's about your section report, as a matter of fact. I can see you've put a request for another lieutenant to be put on the Beta-shift."

Spock nodded thoughtfully. "Not specifically for this purpose. I intended to transfer Lieutenant Aoula to the Beta-shift. It is a well earned promotion. With your permission, of course."

Kirk waved a hand at this dismissively. "I see no need in telling you how to run your department."

"Thank you, sir. I do, however, require another officer, now that Ms. Quaint is leaving."

"That's what I wanted to ask you about," Kirk gestured him to a chair and sat down himself. "Her request – it's a bit sudden, don't you think?" he eyed Spock warily, missing nothing.

"It is unexpected, yes. Her original intention was to remain on board till this five-year mission is over."

"What happened?"

"I was given to understand that her personal arrangements had undergone a sudden change, and the conditions aboard the _Enterprise_ are no longer compatible."

For a moment, Kirk simply watched him, trying to decipher his meaning.

"Spock, is she pregnant?"

The Vulcan continued to look at him evenly.

"I have no information as of this moment," he replied coolly. "She is scheduled for medical examination tomorrow. I would have to check with the Doctor afterwards."

"But, I thought she would have told you..." Kirk's voice trailed off, his cheeks reddening slightly.

"Ah," Spock declared meaningfully. "Forgive me, Captain, I did not realize you were a part of the crew's infatuation with my supposed involvement with Lieutenant Quaint. Naturally, you are surprised. But, Captain, I am obliged to point out that rumors are rarely a reliable source of information."

"I don't listen to rumors, Spock, I just... happened to come across this one," his blush deepened.

"And believed it? Captain, if memory serves, only less than a week ago you chided me for believing strangers instead of having faith in you."

"You never told me anything about her," Kirk said defensively.

Spock appeared unmoved.

"You never asked."

That was true of course, Kirk thought. But how were you supposed to ask a Vulcan about his love life? He glanced at his friend again. Spock was watching him with an enigmatic expression, which bore striking resemblance to being smug.

"All right, Spock, you win," Jim sighed. "If I'm not being intrusive – and I apologize if I am, are you involved with her?"

"That would not be prudent, Captain," Spock replied calmly.

"Because she is your subordinate?"

"Because she is family."

"Family?" Kirk stared at him, bewildered. Spock never ceased to amaze him.

Spock almost smiled at his puzzlement.

"Yes, Captain, family. You are forgetting I'm afraid that I am half-human. Jessica is my mother's second cousin's child. It is a very distant relation, but a relation nonetheless. When she was posted aboard the _Enterprise_ I was asked to look after her, as she was still very young, and only got this position because of her impressive expertise."

"And of course you did," Kirk nodded, comprehension flooding him. "Look after her. That's why you seemed to be so close that people started to get ideas. And you," he added with a certain measure of exasperated amusement, "never bothered to prove them wrong."

"Captain, it is hardly my place to intervene with what others think."

"Of course not, Mr. Spock, it wouldn't be half as much fun then, would it?"

"Fun, Captain?"

"Oh, don't give me that look. You've enjoyed fooling us all around, admit it, Spock."

"Hardly so, Captain. Humans are illogical beings. I have often noted that the more they were discouraged from a particular line of thinking, the more persistent in it they became."

"You do have a point there."

"Thank you. Besides, the subject was never easy with Jessica. Despite your personal experience on Origas, I assure you, Captain, that she is a very private person."

Kirk blushed deeper than ever, reproach creeping into his eyes along with profound embarrassment.

"Spock, that was way below the belt!"

Spock allowed his eyebrow to lift up again.

"If I recall our practice session last week correctly, usually you favor... unorthodox tactics."

"Okay, I guess I deserved that. But what other tactics can a human use against a Vulcan to gain a fighting chance to defeat him?"

"Indeed. However, the chances are not high even with this precaution."

Their eyes locked and held, as Kirk grinned wickedly. "Mr. Spock, are you daring me?"

"Captain, the human concept of dare has always been an enigma for me. I am afraid I have too poor an understanding of it to be capable of purposeful implementation."

"Could have fooled me," Kirk got up to his feet, looking at his friend expectantly. "Come on, I want to test my chances."

"I would not recommend it in your present condition, Captain," Spock didn't make a move to stand up.

"Really? What condition would that be?"

"It is fairly late, you are fatigued and not at your usual best, considering..." he nodded at the pile of data chips still sitting at the Captain's desk.

"Not at my usual best?" Kirk asked indignantly. "Mr. Spock, report to the gymnasium immediately. I believe we have a few issues to clear up."

"Yes, sir." Spock did stand up then, following his Captain out of the room.

Already in the corridor, Kirk laughed suddenly, glancing back for a moment and shaking his head. He's been manipulated and he knew it, but it still caught him off guard sometimes, how well Spock managed to do this. Always acting in his Captain's best interests, of course.

A shadow ran across Kirk's face as he dwelled on the deepening ease between them. Lately he started to feel more relaxed in Spock's company than he'd ever done around anyone else in his life, and that included Gary and even Sam. What was more, it seemed like Spock finally lightened up a bit, too, and where previously there had been a perfect working relationship and mutual respect, now a blindingly brilliant friendship was blooming, warming everything in its radius.

A surge of pain shot through him, like an electrical impulse, and he forced a smile to return to his lips with an effort. No need to think about the future yet. He still had time, some time together. He couldn't afford to waste it.


	4. Working Out

**Chapter 3**

**Working Out**

Once in the gym, they changed into their habitual workout suits, Kirk – in uniform red pants, and Spock into a tightly fitting dark grey sweat suit. Watching him going through warming-up exercises, Kirk mused silently that Spock never wore Starfleet issued uniform in the gym, and he never asked him why. But then, he thought with a grin, stretching his own muscles, he could hardly imagine the Vulcan in unexpressive Starfleet red.

He remembered vividly the first time he'd seen Spock in the gym. The Science Officer always worked out alone, preferably in a separate room. If none was available – Spock wasn't the only one who came to the gym late in the evening or in the early mornings – he would come to the general area, a rare sight, always gathering observers and never participants. It was one of these rare occasions that caught Kirk's attention.

At first, he thought Spock practiced a form of some ritual dance. He moved slowly, smoothly, as if floating. Then, suddenly, Kirk saw it. Every graceful move was calculated with inhuman precision and stopped just in time in order not to become deadly. One slight turn of that seemingly slender palm – and a neck would be broken. An elbow going down a little lower, a shoulder elevated a bit more, - and there would be no survivors. Indeed, if one was to picture an opponent trying to avoid those almost tender movements he would undoubtedly be faced with dreadful force and inevitable reciprocation. It was breathtaking.

The exercise went on, and Spock increased the rhythm, more and more, until he was but a mesmerizing blur, incapable of stopping. Nobody in the room moved by that time, leaving any pretence of minding their own business. Just as suddenly, as the rhythm started to get faster, all the movement stopped, revealing Spock standing on one knee in the middle of uncharted circle, bending forward as if in a graceful bow.

Awed, Kirk stepped closer to Giotto, who also had been watching the Vulcan transfixed, and asked quietly.

"Do you know what he's doing?"

"Yes, sir," the Security Chief nodded somberly. "Vulcan Martial Arts. He'd showed me a couple of things, but I don't think I have the nerve."

Kirk stared at him. Giotto was probably the most experienced fighter in Starfleet, yet now he was saying he couldn't accomplish something Spock could. Suddenly, Kirk realized the nature of profound respect Giotto was always expressing towards the First Officer. The Captain suspected it was something deeper than simple duty relationship, and now he knew what it was.

Giotto walked away to continue the workout with his squad, and Kirk came over to Spock, who straightened up slowly.

"Very impressive, Commander," Kirk grinned at him. "I apologize for staring, but what you're doing seems quite – unique."

"Indeed it is not, Captain," Spock replied calmly.

He wasn't even out of breath! Kirk marveled silently.

"Commander Giotto said he tried and failed," he noted casually.

Spock's gaze drifted to the Security Chief who was wrestling with one of his ensigns.

"The Commander is somewhat... conservative in his approach," Spock said. "He is reluctant to involve mind disciplines into practice. For Vulcan Martial Arts it is essential."

"Would you consider taking another student?"

The Vulcan looked back at him, and Kirk felt an irrational urge to squirm under his appraising gaze.

"Yes. If he or she is capable of submitting to guidance."

Jim smiled, indicating that he got the message.

"Don't worry, I have no problem with taking instructions from... a master."

"Then, I am looking forward our first lesson."

"As am I. It's a date."

Spock nodded silently.

Their first lesson turned out a surprise for both parties. Aware of the necessity to protect the Captain's image in the eyes of the crew at all times, Spock booked a smaller room for private session. He didn't anticipate a milk run, however, and wasn't disappointed by Kirk's creativity and determination. He was still overly surprised at the willingness to accept his guidance that the Captain showed, apparently with no reservations whatsoever.

As for Kirk, the Captain was truly amazed with a crashing realization of a simple truth that he somehow failed to see before: if he and Spock were forced to fight each other, he most likely wouldn't stand a chance. He knew, of course, that Vulcans were generally stronger and faster, but, somehow he never connected the words 'Spock' and 'violence' in the same association row. He'd seen Spock in action, many times, but was never threatened by him. Pinned to the floor for the third time with almost casual ease, unable to move a muscle, he realized there was a whole new layer to his First Officer he hadn't encountered before.

And there was another truth, same for both participants, hitting them both at the same time: they had immensely enjoyed the workout together. It was strange for Kirk, as he never enjoyed himself losing anything. It was stranger even for Spock, who rarely fancied being exposed to as much physical contact with people who did not shield their emotions. Yet, as they looked at each other after Spock had declared the end of session, Kirk was grinning, and the Vulcan's eyes were smiling back, warm with appreciation of the way the human accepted the training.

Kirk didn't even notice when he pushed both his and Spock's schedule, so that their workouts took place not once, but three times a week.

Sometimes they used the common area, but more often than not they still practiced alone. Vulcan Martial Arts were not the only point on the agenda. Kirk had a lot of things to introduce into each session as well, though Spock's Vulcan reflexes made him highly proficient even when fighting off the unknown. Still, the Captain managed to surprise him more times than not, and their practice randomly had a single winner.

Both creative, skillful, well-trained, they were a perfect match for each other, neither ever getting bored, and at times, Kirk wondered why it had taken him so long to see this. Already these sessions had been responsible for saving his life on several occasions, due to his own improved reaction and a deepening subconscious sense of each other rooting in both of them, making it easy to anticipate the actions of the partner. Still, there were a number of things which bugged Kirk even as he came to know his second-in-command better and better. He tried to find safe moments to probe further into the closed alien culture.

Pinned against the wall, seemingly immobilized, he managed to turn his head enough to catch Spock's eye.

"Spock, I've been meaning to ask you," he breathed out, trying to take his pulse under control. "How come such peaceful people created this vicious routine?"

"Vicious, Captain?" Spock cocked an eyebrow at him, making no move to release him.

"You deny it?" Kirk was slightly surprised. "Spock, even as we are now, should you turn your wrist even a little further and you'll break my arm. Should your knee twist a bit, and –"

"Like this?" Spock asked innocently.

"God, yes," Kirk whispered, literary freezing. He wasn't sure if even speaking was safe. "Do you mind?" he managed finally, abiding by their unspoken rules.

Spock let him go, stepping back and watching him with a certain measure of amusement that not a lot of people would be able to see.

"Thank you," Kirk panted, sliding down and resting his hands on his knees. "That was close."

"Jim, I would never intentionally hurt you," Spock told him, keeping his voice light, yet wearing a most serious expression in his eyes.

"I know that, Spock," Kirk smiled at him trustingly. He thought of another reason that made him enjoy these workouts so immensely – Spock became wonderfully informal in here, evidently relaxed enough to lower some of his guard. "But what about my question?"

Spock's face became pensive, as he sat down on the mat, contemplating the issue.

"This routine is made to train both mind and body. Vulcan children start to practice it at the age of four. They are allowed to abandon it when they reach the age of ten."

"I take it you didn't stop?"

"Obviously. The master knew of my interest for ancient history and suggested I continue on an intensive course."

"And that's when harmless gymnastics became martial art?"

"Not precisely. It has been both all the while. Vulcans are peaceful people, Captain. But we do not lack survival instinct. We find it logical for our offspring to be capable of self-defense if needed. However, I must admit that hardly anyone believes this routine to be combat training."

Kirk snorted. "Rest assured, Spock, anyone who's sparred with you even once does."

Spock sent him a sharp gaze across the room.

"Jim, you are indicating continuously that I represent a menace."

"You do."

"Yet, here you are sparring with me."

Kirk grinned ruefully. "I trust you, don't I? But I wouldn't want to have you as an opponent in battle."

Spock frowned, not the tiniest bit amused.

"I cannot come close to imagining circumstances that would lead to such occurrence."

The Captain smiled reassuringly. "No, Spock. Neither can I."

In two weeks since this conversation, Spock had stopped eating. In another one, he reluctantly disclosed the information about Vulcan biology. Several days later, they met face to face on the red sands of the ancient arena on Vulcan in a fight to the death.

--

In a week since the incident on Vulcan, Kirk decided that he had given Spock enough time to recuperate. He knew one other thing. Regardless of his knowledge that his friend was not responsible for his actions, he felt certain degree of apprehension in his presence ever since. Thin air, or no thin air, he didn't like his own inability to defend his life, least of all did he enjoy the idea of being beaten by his own First Officer. His bruised ego aside, he knew he didn't want to part with the implicit trust he had in Spock. He realized that if he acted on any of those impulses, he would unlikely be able to return to the unclouded ritual of the past and that consequently would create a tension, a block between him and Spock, which he didn't want to have.

He knew Spock would not come to him after what had happened. He had to reassure his friend, to show his trust never wavered. To his surprise, though, Spock, albeit frowning, agreed to join him in the gym almost at once. Taking that as a good sign, Kirk kept it light while they were on their way down, discussing ship's business and the latest shifts in the ship's pool. When, however, he started for their usual room, Spock stopped him.

"I have forgotten to inform you, Captain, as you and I were not using the room, I have given the permission for the maintenance crew to have it refitted. We will have to stay in the common area."

"All right," Kirk nodded, slightly perplexed, searching the crowded room for a piece of free space, and heading toward it. "What do you want to begin with?"

Surprising him again, Spock had chosen human wrestling which he normally tried to avoid. In a moment, they were grappling and rolling, gripping each other in a fierce lock. Spock chose the attack pattern, which was also unusual for him, and didn't give his opponent a moment of ease. They were gathering quite an audience.

Using every bit of knowledge and experience he had, Kirk managed to rebuff Spock's attacks and finally pinned him effectively to the mat, causing cheers to erupt around them. Their eyes locked and held, strange light glimmering in Spock's gaze, but Kirk didn't have the time to reflect upon its meaning, as he was attacked again.

Another round of wrestling ended with Spock lying on the mat, this time face down with his arm in a painful lock behind his back, rendering him quite helpless. Cheers became louder. Kirk released him, and he rolled over, springing to his feet.

They began to circle again. Anticipation and some unidentifiable but pleasant sensation flooded Kirk's veins, filling him with power. He felt his lips curling up in a grin, and fought it vigorously, refusing to be distracted. He knew what kind of reciprocation awaited him should he lose his concentration even for one second. Whether he managed to hold his control intact or not, he was destined to be victorious that evening. Seeing an opening in Spock's defenses, he lunged forward, and even though the Vulcan managed to block him at the last moment, he did gain the advantage, which he didn't hesitate to use. Several short seconds later, Spock missed a blow aimed at his abdomen, which made him lose his balance and fall backwards. Nobody saw him wincing in pain, as the spectators cheered again, appreciating their Captain's skill.

Kirk came over before Spock got up, lending him a hand.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly, as the Vulcan came to his feet.

"Of course, Captain," Spock's tone was absolutely serene. "I should have paid more attention."

"Do you have a problem concentrating tonight? We can wrap this up for now and –"

"No need, Jim. It is not my concentration that is at fault, it is a remarkable progress you have made that allows you to prevail."

"Spock," Kirk let go of his hand reluctantly, stepping back to assume a position once again. "Why do I get the feeling that you're coddling me?"

Spock's face met Kirk's grin with an expression of profound Vulcan strictness.

"There would be no point in the exercise if I were to do that," he returned with cold arrogance. "Shall we continue?"

"By all means."

Warned by the Captain's remark, Spock became even more persistent and cunning in his attacks, but it probably wasn't his night, because by the time Kirk called the session to halt, and sat down panting, everyone lost count of how many times and in how many various ways the Vulcan was defeated. As always, he took it stoically, his face betraying no hint of emotion, as he thanked the Captain for the workout. Obviously pleased with himself, Kirk stayed behind to allow some of his security officers to have a shot, to their evident delight.

Spock entered the locker room alone, and was genuinely surprised to see McCoy waiting there for him. Without a word, the Doctor pointed his medical scanner at him, ignoring Spock's protests.

"Oh, shove it off, Spock," he bristled indignantly. "Just what the devil were you doing in there? Practicing psychology without a license?"

"I would never presume upon your area, Doctor," the Vulcan returned coldly, tilting his head and regretting it almost instantly.

"Yes, I know it hurts," McCoy nodded with grim satisfaction. "Flying across the room, colliding with a wall like that... I bet you're dizzy, too."

"It was a usual practice."

"Don't insult my intelligence, Spock."

"My apologies, Doctor, had I known that the substance in question existed, I would have showed it more respect."

"Oh very funny," McCoy's eyes narrowed. "Let's put my intelligence at test, shall we? You've chosen the public area today, when usually you workout in private. I was in the gallery, and I gotta tell you, that was an admirable job you did fighting back your own reflexes. Jim's fast, but he's not that fast, you know what I'm saying? It's not your first workout I've watched. Granted, he can have your ass on the mat occasionally – occasionally, Spock, not 100 percent of the time."

Spock grimaced slightly, letting his distaste with human colloquialisms show for once.

"The Captain is a proficient fighter."

"Don't I know that," McCoy grumbled. "You've got a mild concussion, two fractured ribs, a sprained wrist, a badly sprained ankle, and this bruise," he pointed at Spock's abdomen, "is causing your short breathiness. Next time you want to make amends, you should probably try a less violent way."

"I was not trying to make amends."

"Then, what the hell were you doing in there? And don't give me any of that 'the Captain is a proficient fighter' crap. What were you trying to prove to him, Spock, letting him beat you to a pulp?"

"That I am not a menace," the Vulcan replied softly, in a quiet defeated voice.

McCoy glared at him.

"You _are_ a menace all right," he declared defiantly, "– to yourself, Mr. Spock. On this ship, hardly anyone can hurt you if you don't help them do it. Did you really think the Captain needed that brutal proof of your loyalty?"

Spock didn't say anything, looking persistently at the floor, as if having discovered a star nebula there. McCoy sighed, his anger draining fast at the sight.

"Spock," he reached out to put a hand on the Vulcan's arm, choosing his words carefully. "Regardless of what happened on Vulcan, Jim trusts you with his life," he paused before adding resolutely, "So do I."

Spock's head snapped up, his eyes meeting the human's in open surprise – not so much at the revelation, but at the very fact that McCoy had made that admission. The Doctor shook his head, fighting a grin at his own actions.

"C'mon, let's go," he patted Spock on the arm before releasing him.

"Where?" the Vulcan asked suspiciously.

"My, aren't we perceptive tonight? Sick Bay, Commander. Or did you think I'd let your lungs swell before treating your injuries? No, don't argue, for heaven's sake. Let's go before Jim turns up and gets all hot and bothered."

To cap the mounting weirdness of the evening, Spock obeyed without further protest.

Next morning, at breakfast, Kirk slid down to a chair next to McCoy and asked casually, staring at his omelet, "Did you check Spock out?"

McCoy glanced at him sharply, before returning his attention to his cereal.

"You seem to know already that I did."

"And?"

"He's fine. But next time you'd probably want to think who it is you're hitting – a friend or an enemy."

Kirk grimaced. "I didn't expect him to miss it. Guess he wasn't at his best last night."

"I wouldn't be so sure," McCoy muttered darkly. "Listen, Jim..."

"Don't." The Captain's gaze was stern. "Don't. I know."

"Do you?" McCoy refused to back off that easily. "He was way off, Jim. And it wasn't for 'a highly proficient Starfleet captain,' blast his pointy ears."

"Bones," Kirk sighed. "Drop it, will you? Spock has his own way of coping with things. He'll feel better today than he did yesterday, you'll see."

"And what about you?"

Their eyes met, and Kirk smiled in relief.

"I'll feel better, too."

McCoy only shrugged, indicating he'd give that theory a try before dismissing. But Kirk was proved right without delay. The time when he had been learning to ride a horse came to his mind. In the very beginning, he, a boy of no more than six then, had fallen down for the first time. His brother, who had been watching over him, had put him on the horse's back again immediately, despite his tears and protests. 'If you don't do it now, your fear will grow, and you will always be afraid,' Sam had said. He learnt his lesson well, and, by the looks of it, Spock understood the nature of things, too.

--

Coming out of his reverie, Kirk concentrated again on the present, determined to make Spock pay for his dare. But it ended up, like it so often ended up, with Spock pinning him to the floor, without too much effort.

"All right," Kirk panted, wishing his head would stop swinging. "Explain."

"You lost your balance by the fourth circle," the Vulcan's tone was soothing. "I knew that if I would not let you regain it by sixth, you will give."

"How come you always outsmart me?"

"Shall I remind you about our training session last week?"

"That doesn't count, I cheated."

"You were creative. And I must have been prepared to expect imaginative tactics."

Kirk snorted, stretching out his hand blindly, knowing Spock would meet it to help him up. Indeed, he instantly felt the strong warm grasp of the Vulcan, pulling him up, but in a moment a sharp pain in his shoulder wiped any conscious thought out of his mind. The next thing he knew, Spock was carefully putting him back on the floor, instructing him to stay still, his voice infiltrated with evident concern.

"It's not your fault," Jim said, as the pain's grasp dissipated slightly. "I must have dislocated it when I fell."

"I should have been more careful," Spock shook his head stubbornly.

His self-incrimination, always at the ready to spring to life, made Kirk smile, despite the pain.

"Spock, you can't teach me anything, if all you think about is not hurting me. How many bruises did you get while learning to do this stuff?"

"Quite a share," Spock nodded. "But I was still a child then. I was ready to be hurt in every practice."

"Well, since you are my tutor, so am I," Kirk joked grumpily, and regretted it instantly, seeing the look on Spock's face. "Spock, I didn't mean it, not like that."

"I shall call the Doctor in," Spock replied stiffly, getting up to his feet. "Stay put." He ordered.

"Aye, sir," Kirk grinned.

Several minutes later, McCoy strode in, with an unhappy expression on his face, always present when he had to answer Spock's or Jim's late night calls from the gym. Spock reentered the room at the same moment, coming out of the locker, back in uniform again.

"This is a pretty picture," McCoy grunted, scanning the Captain. "What have you done this time, Spock? Can't you hold that damn Vulcan strength in check for once?"

"I wouldn't want him to do that," Kirk objected. "Come on, Bones, it wasn't his fault."

"Oh, it wasn't, was it? Sit still, Jim."

Kirk looked from one to the other. "You do have fun ordering me around, don't you?"

McCoy fixed him with a strict glance; Spock, however, didn't even raise an eyebrow. Kirk sighed, realizing he wasn't the only one hurt, however unintentionally. The intercom whistled softly, making all three of them look at it involuntarily.

"Bridge to Captain Kirk," Uhura's disembodied voice sounded mildly tense.

Kirk nodded to Spock, who punched the button for him.

"Kirk here," he raised his voice slightly. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Incoming transmission from Starfleet Command, Captain. Admiral Lewton."

Kirk glanced at Spock, and the Vulcan nodded readily. "Mr. Spock is on his way."

"Acknowledged, sir. Bridge out."

"Damn," Kirk said, as the door closed behind the First Officer. "I've just said a stupid thing to him. How come I can never get it right with him?"

McCoy snorted. "Jim, if you don't know how to get it right with him, I don't know who does. You tamed that Vulcan so skillfully, it's amazing. He's practically eating out of your hand."

"You exaggerate."

"Am I? Jim, judging from the frequency on which you call me in here, he's become your regular sparring partner, and you like to exercise – let's just say, a lot. I would have never thought he'll be willing to allow this much physical contact with someone who doesn't know how to shield his thoughts and emotions."

"Spock isn't exactly untouchable, Bones."

"Apparently not, when it comes to you."

"Doctor, what are you getting at?" Kirk looked at him piercingly, as if asking him mutely to be careful with his words.

"I'm not getting at anything, Jim," McCoy's gaze was absolutely serene. "I'm merely surprised at the rapport you two have established."

"It makes us an excellent command team."

"No denying that. He literary feels what you think. And you know what he feels even when he doesn't. I don't know how you two are doing this, but it's, well, extraordinary."

Kirk moved his arm tentatively, and, reassured by feeling no pain, got up to his feet.

"It works for us," he said simply.

McCoy was watching him curiously. "What was the stupid thing that you said?"

Kirk shook his head, avoiding his gaze. "Nothing. Just... stupid... something."

"Whatever," McCoy grinned.


	5. The Chain of Command

**Chapter 4**

**The ****Chain of Command**

Spock walked into the Bridge in his inimitable brisk, yet elegant manner, and nodded to Uhura instantly.

"On screen. Admiral," he bowed his head respectfully.

"Mr. Spock," Lewton, obviously, wasn't surprised to see him. "Where's Captain Kirk?"

"Temporarily indisposed, sir."

"Anything serious?"

"No, sir. A minor injury sustained during workout."

Uhura and Chekov exchanged an exasperated glance at these words behind Spock's back.

"I see. Well, I can't wait around till he's out of the bushes. You'll relay his orders to him, won't you?"

"Unquestionably, sir. And they are?"

"That I can only tell you on a secure channel and alone, Mr. Spock. The information's strictly confidential."

"Lieutenant," Spock turned to Uhura. "Patch the Admiral to Briefing Room One, please, and secure the channel."

"Yes, sir."

"I shall be with you momentarily, Admiral," Spock said.

Briefing Room One was the closest to the Bridge, and Spock only had to walk one deck down to get there, but his pace was considerably slower this time. If he were human, Spock would have said that he had a bad feeling concerning the conversation ahead. Being the Head of Starfleet Intelligence, Admiral Lewton never called without a serious reason, and from the very first conversation Spock shared with him, when the Admiral had surprised him by knowing exactly who he was even before Spock had had a chance to introduce himself, he felt uneasy every time Lewton called again.

He activated the screen.

"Took you long enough," Lewton grumbled. Spock merely raised an eyebrow. "Commander, I am now transferring the orders you will show to your Captain."

Spock glanced at the blinking light on the panel, and nodded curtly.

"What I am about to tell you, you will not discuss with anyone," Lewton continued. "Not even Kirk. Specifically not Kirk."

"Admiral?"

"Under regulation Fifty Seven article One sub-section B, you are now in my direct subordination."

"Sir?" Spock couldn't help but let some of his surprise show.

"Commander, you are familiar with the regulation, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Remind me the regulation, would you, Commander?"

"The authority of Starfleet Intelligence should take precedence over the established chain of command if the security of the Federation is compromised by one of its members," Spock quoted smoothly. "But, Admiral, you must have sound proof of the said transgression, otherwise such drastic measure would hardly be justified. I cannot believe that –"

Lewton frowned.

"Mr. Spock, I need you to stop mooning and start thinking. If I wanted to hear hysterical wining, I'd call your CMO. I need your clear Vulcan head on this, Spock. Do you think I don't understand the implications of my actions? Do you find it logical of me to give such an order if I didn't have any proof?"

"No, sir, however, I am obliged to point out that logic has not been the key factor in a great number of other Command decisions."

Lewton laughed sardonically. "Touché. This time, however, I'm afraid we really got ourselves the ballgame. Commander, are you aware that recently certain classified information was leaked to the Klingons?"

"It was in the last SI briefing, sir," Spock nodded. "Fleet depletion and trade shipments schedule."

Lewton fixed him with a heavy stare.

"I would really like to know how you do it, Spock. There was nothing about fleet depletion in our briefing."

"Admiral, I only –"

"Some other time. You are correct. We had to re-chart strategic map for the whole sector. And after we completed this, the leak happened again."

Spock's eyebrow rose up on its own volition.

"That is most disturbing, sir."

"It's more than disturbing, it's very dangerous, especially now, in view of your current mission. The Organians haven't shown themselves for quite some time now, and the Klingons are getting bolder. If this leak isn't stopped, we'll find ourselves again one bad bottle of Suarian brandy away from a very hot war with the Klingons all over the quadrant. I need your help with the investigation, Commander."

"I am, of course, at your disposal, Admiral," Spock stated gravely. "But I see no reason not to inform Captain Kirk about this."

"Well, I do," Lewton snapped. "Why do you think I'm asking _you_ for assistance? Captain Kirk is our primary suspect."

His words had a very similar effect to a stunning beam. Spock managed to maintain his control, despite overpowering astonishment, but he couldn't stay silent.

"Admiral," he uttered hoarsely. "That is impossible."

"On the contrary, that's, unfortunately, very possible. We all saw what happened in that room on Organia. Kirk was as unhappy to be unable to kill, as Kor. Ever since the peace treaty we've been monitoring the Captain's activity. He had made it abundantly clear several times that he considered this cold peace to be a preliminary of an armed conflict."

"As did many other officers and diplomats," Spock countered. "It is only logical to expect the renewal of hostilities if the peace treaty was forced upon both sides."

"Gun-shot weddings can be turned into two things, Spock: tolerable marriage or open warfare. We've been trying for the former, while everything Kirk did was for the latter. That bunch of tribbles you sent to the Koloth's ship – would you say it was a friendly act?"

"But it was not Captain Kirk's responsibility. If anyone's, it was mine."

"Spock, there have been other incidents, of which you are aware as well as I am. Marrietta, Grendel V, Rigel IX, Deep Space Four – shall I go on?"

"That does not justify your suspicions."

"No, but it reveals a motive. The Federation is not going to start a war, therefore, those who wish it must concentrate on the Klingons. And they would not open fire until they have some considerable advantage."

"Logical," Spock admitted reluctantly. "But how does that prove Captain Kirk –"

"Captain Kirk is our suspect, because during all three incidents, he was the only one who both had access to the information and was capable of organizing the transmission."

"Three incidents, Admiral?"

"Yes, there had been a third leak. I'm afraid the Klingons are very much aware of the _Enterprise's_ current mission, Commander. We couldn't intercept the transmission, but we managed to trace it. The _Enterprise_, Station 010."

Instinctively, Spock closed his eyes for a split second. Station 010. No one on board had access to it, no one even knew about the very fact of its existence, much less the location. No one... except for the Captain and the First Officer. And as Spock knew, apparently, as well as Lewton, that he, himself, hadn't come near that station recently, he saw the basis for the Admiral's accusations at last.

"Sir," he started determinately, "it is still highly improbable that Captain Kirk is the perpetrator in this case. Such actions constitute an act of treason. Captain Kirk is not capable of committing any such act."

"Oh good God," Lewton sighed. "Get yourself together, Mr. Spock. I know Kirk's been treating you like his best buddy for a while, but I really didn't expect it to get to your head. I know they say that the man could charm stones to speak, but you're a Vulcan, you should be able to resist his spell."

"I do not believe in spells, Admiral," Spock replied coldly.

"I'm glad to hear it. I'd hate to discover that Kirk's little rouse to make you his errand boy under pretence of friendship has taken effect. I admit I had my concerns about you, Spock. Kirk is reported to keep you awfully close, like a tame dog ready to spring to his every wish. But after learning that you were willing to let your own father die rather than relinquish command during a crisis, I knew I needn't worry. I must say, that report amazed even me. That is exactly the kind of cold-bloodiness that makes any personal association between humans and Vulcans impossible. Most of us can't accept such heartlessness. Anyway, after reading that report I knew I can trust you with the task."

Lewton's tone was enthusiastic, almost cheerful. He looked at Spock smugly, almost expecting him to be visibly pleased with that outstanding praise. Spock listened to him impassively. If the Admiral's words were producing any sort of reaction, there was no way to tell.

"Admiral," he said calmly. "I submit that I am not the right person for the task."

Lewton smiled. "Spock, you resist the assignment because it doesn't look too honorable spying on your commanding officer. I understand. But the stakes are too high to be cuddling your Vulcan honor. My order stands. If you do not wish to find yourself facing a court-martial for insubordination, your only option is to comply."

The tiniest frown appeared on Spock's face.

"Sir, I respectfully suggest we leave my Vulcan honor out of this. I submit that I am unqualified. I am convinced in Captain Kirk's innocence, therefore, my judgment is not impartial."

Lewton's smile became wider.

"Then, prove it, Spock. Personal beliefs cannot be submitted as argument in court. I have evidence to sustain my claim. What do you have?"

"My years of service together with the Captain. His behavioral pattern does not allow for any such–"

"Commander," Lewton interrupted him. "Captain Garth's subordinates believed him to be in his right mind and respectful of the Federation laws till the end. They, too, were willing to testify that he was the most honorable man in the fleet. Unfortunately, the people of Antos VI were the ones to pay the price for this short-sighted regard. Are you following me?"

"I believe I am, Admiral."

"Good, because I have no intention of chatting with you till the hell's frozen. You will accept the assignment or face the consequences immediately, and I will appoint another officer for the task. Doctor McCoy, perhaps. Or Mr. Scott."

Spock shuddered inwardly, imagining the Doctor's reaction. Given McCoy's history, it would undoubtedly result in the premature ending of his Starfleet career.

"Time to call the bets, Mr. Spock. Will you comply?"

Spock realized he didn't have any choice. The best way for him to keep everybody out of the harm's way was to accept the gruesome task.

"Yes, sir," he acknowledged grimly.

"You will not conceal any evidence, hold back any observations, or let the subject know by any means imaginable that he is under investigation, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good," Lewton nodded, somewhat reassured. "Your orders are not to let the Captain out of your sight. You're going to reach the first planet on your mission plan soon. We have all reasons to believe another exchange of information will take place there. Stay close to Kirk. Your task is not to prevent the breach, but to bring the proof. Under no circumstances might you tell anyone about your orders. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Report to me as soon as you're done with it. I hope I don't have to teach you to be discreet."

"No, Admiral."

"Erase the record of this conversation immediately. Lewton out."

The screen went blank. For a few moments, Spock stared at it unseeingly, then reached for the controls and did as he was ordered.

He was experiencing a most strange sensation. His mind went numb, blank, like a mind of a child. For the first time in his life did he feel such overpowering helplessness and loss of any coherent thought.

Captain Kirk had been declared a suspect in nothing smaller than treason. And he, Spock, was ordered to prove his guilt. Why, he wondered quite illogically, why was it always him who ended up with attacking Jim? The competence hearing, initiated by Commodore Stocker, was still all too vivid in his memory. The dreadful feeling that he was an unwilling instrument of his Captain's destruction was haunting him ever since, and now – now he was about to experience it again, only to a much deeper degree.

The evidence brought by Lewton was disturbing. Spock would check it personally, of course, but the chances of proving the Admiral right were reasonably high even by a crude estimation. He didn't bother to calculate the exact odds. But there were a number of possibilities still. Computer signature could have been falsified. Someone else might have gained access to the station. Granted, the chances of that were less than one to a hundred, but still not entirely non-existent. He'd find out the truth before the Command would act on those impossible suppositions...

Then, another thought crept into his mind. Spock had to admit that the Admiral's assessment of Kirk as a man who could 'charm stones to speak' was accurate. Was it possible that the rest of his evaluations were also true, as the laws of logic would suggest? He could not believe that Jim's attitude towards him was a pretence, though for a perpetrator, that would indeed be a wise and logical move. And Spock was still so inapt at times when it came down to reading human signals correctly...

Spock stood up abruptly, and, after pocketing the chip with the official orders Lewton sent them, left the room.

--

Scotty strode into the Officer's Mess grumpily, his sore neck making him wince every now and then. Automatically, he glanced around the room, empty due to the late hour, and headed straight for the replicator. Blindly reaching for the chip that would produce coffee, he managed to find it instantly and inserted it into the slot.

"Ah," he intoned with satisfaction, as the strong smell filled the room.

"Bit late for that kind of stuff, wouldn't you say?"

Caught off guard, he let go of the cup and caught it only nearly in time, spilling some of the hot liquid on his fingers. Somebody giggled behind him.

"Sorry."

He turned to face Christine Chapel standing right next to him.

"Good heavens, lass," he stammered. "Really, creeping up on people like that..."

"You shouldn't be drinking coffee this late," she said with a soft reproach in her voice.

"I have a shift to pull, don't I? Wait a minute," he caught her hand and raised it to his eyes to inspect a chip she was holding. "Ye're ordering it yerself!"

She blushed, and broke free, inserting the traitorous chip into the slot determinedly.

"I have to catch up on some work," she said defensively. "And you are not supposed to be on duty now!"

"Neither are ye," he returned with a grin. "What work are ye catching up on, anyway?"

"My exams are not that far away," she replied, taking out her own steaming cup. "And I'm late in submitting my term paper."

"I'm mighty glad to hear that," Scotty said unexpectedly, as they sat down at the nearest table.

"Why?" Chapel stared at him.

"Because after ye leave for the damn medical school, there'll be no one left here to drink coffee with me in the middle of the night."

She laughed, taking a sip of the hot drink.

"What is it, third time this week?" she asked frivolously. "I'm starting to think there's something wrong with our engines."

"Don't ye ever say that, even in jest!" the Engineer chided her. "Nay, I'm giving Mandy some time off. Ye know Lieutenant Quaint is leaving, and they're close friends. I mean, I know she wouldn't ask, but I'm no that heartless."

Christine smiled somewhat sadly and patted his arm.

"Not even a blind and deaf person can say that," she assured him.

"Aye," he frowned into his cup. "What's wrong with lassies on this blasted ship anyway? First, Janice transferred to the dullest ship in the fleet. Then, Carolyn stayed behind on that murky little planet to study some goddamned ruins. Now Jess is getting married to some crazy chap who can't even make his fortunes in the Alfa quadrant! Next thing we know, ye'll be leaving for med school, and Mandy's gonna leave me for her own ship!"

"You make it sound personal."

"Aye, it is. What are we – intergalactic cab for damsels in distress?"

"I suggest you don't ask the Captain that question," she grinned.

"It's no his fault he's that easy going," Scotty returned somewhat defensively. "The ladies like him. But he only loves one lady," he glanced around, as if caressing the bulkheads.

"So I've heard," Christine uttered with feigned coldness. "Which doesn't exactly stop him from –"

"I do not believe that Captain's personal life is an appropriate subject for gossip, Nurse."

Chapel jumped, turning around swiftly. Spock was standing in the doorway, watching her face going mildly red.

"I'm sorry, sir," she whispered, her heart beating rapidly somewhere in her throat.

"Mr. Spock, we dinna say anything inappropriate," Scotty frowned at the First Officer.

"I am pleased to know that, Mr. Scott. However, you might discover that more responsible behavior is required of a senior officer, even when he is off duty."

Paying them no more attention, Spock walked to the replicator and ordered his customary herbal tea. The frosty silence behind his back was almost palpable, but he seemed to be completely impervious to it, as usual.

Scotty fumed silently, the undeserved reprimand making his ears burn. Really, who did the Vulcan think he was? He _was_ a senior officer, and he would _never_ allow anyone to be less than respectful towards the Captain, much less show any disrespect himself. And what was Spock doing here, anyway, disrupting his friendly little talk with Christine? Surely, there was no emergency...

"My, isn't anyone on this ship sleeping tonight?" Doctor McCoy asked in an amused voice from the doorway. He strode over to the only occupied table. "Ms. Chapel, is that coffee? It's almost 3 a.m. – do you know what it's doing to your system?"

"Yes, Doctor," she nodded, looking at Scotty miserably. "That's the point."

"Ah, well," McCoy sighed dismissively. "Just thought you ought to know. Everything all right with you, Scotty?"

"Aye," he glanced at the Vulcan involuntarily.

McCoy followed his gaze and frowned. Spock was staring at the replicator pad blankly, giving no sign that he noticed the blinking light.

"I think your tea is ready, Spock," McCoy said somewhat acidly. "Would you like me to show you how to work the replicator?"

The First Officer flinched almost imperceptibly, as if coming out of a reverie.

"No, thank you, Doctor," he replied without a hint of humor. "I believe I already possess this knowledge."

He took his cup out and headed towards the dimly lit corridor, without another word.

"Now, what was that all about?" McCoy muttered perplexed, staring after him. "I don't think I've ever seen him this distracted before."

"He was no wee bit distracted a moment ago, Doctor," Scott assured him, still angry. "Yelling at Chris and me for no reason at all."

"Yelling?" McCoy's head snapped towards him. "Spock?"

"Well," Scotty looked at his hands. "In his way."

McCoy's eyebrows shot up at the news. "That's damn peculiar," he muttered. "What are you two up to, anyway? Don't tell me we have an epidemic of insomnia aboard."

"No, we were talking about Jessica," Christine answered. "Mr. Scott here takes her leave very close to heart."

"Aye, I'm mighty tired of saying good-bye. All the good lassies... find some stupid reason – and off they go."

"Noticed that, huh?" McCoy said, searching for the right chip. "But I don't think Jess has any choice."

"'Cause of the baby?" Scotty asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"All right," McCoy turned to face him grimly. "I don't want to know how you know that."

"Lad, little can go on this ship without me knowing," the Engineer grinned, but then his expression became serious, as he asked softly, "How's she doing?"

McCoy shrugged.

"Physically fine. Emotionally, well... That pointy-eared hobgoblin would do well to do something about it, only I don't think he's gonna."

"Mr. Spock isn't unfeeling," Chapel objected. "He's just..."

"Thick-headed? Yeah, that's what I thought. Nurse, is that a coffee chip you're holding?"

"Sure," she handed him the chip that she'd been playing with, fighting a grin. "But it's 3 a.m., Doctor. Do you know what it's doing to your system?"

"Actually no," McCoy admitted, pushing it into the slot. "And I don't think I want to."

--

Alone in his cabin, Spock set the half-empty cup on the desk, looking at it intently, as if in hope that some insight will spring out of it again, as it had just done in the Mess.

_You're a Vulcan_, Lewton said. _Use your logic, use your strength_...

Your strength. Logic wasn't the only strength his Vulcan heritage provided.

He had done it to help complete strangers. He had done it to create a link between two completely different definitions of life. He had used his strength successfully, and however disturbing the process had been, he had never regretted it.

A mind-meld might solve his dilemma. Both questions would be answered at once. Whether or not Jim had done any wrong to the Federation. Whether or not he was sincere in his regard for Spock.

He had touched the Captain's mind several times, but so far, the contact had always been superficial. A touch merely. To ease the pain. To calm anxiety. To reassure and support. But he had never initiated a deep meld, though lately he found himself exploring the subject in the sanctuary of his thoughts. He was curious and – he didn't know what that other feeling was. Contact with Jim had always been so easy, almost natural. He was interested to know what a deeper meld would reveal. Strange it was, because he had never experienced such an impulse before.

But, to initiate a meld, he must have his Captain's permission. And getting it now seemed to be complicated. He was under strict orders not to disclose his mission. He was not prepared to lie, either, especially not to Jim. He would have to find an option somewhere in between.

Reassured slightly by the defined course of action, he managed to drift into light sleep, knowing he was going to need all the resources available for the task.

The A-shift passed same as always. Spock conducted a security briefing, relaying the official orders Lewton had sent the night before. The meeting had gone in a most ordinary way, without any incident. McCoy turned up on the Bridge several times, and instead of hovering at the Captain's elbow, he haunted the railing behind Spock's station, until the Vulcan finally asked him what he was doing. The Doctor grinned, and waved his hand dismissively, but was evidently pleased with what he saw, and retreated to Sick Bay. Spock didn't think much of the episode.

When the shift was over, he uncharacteristically did not go to his lab, returning to his quarters instead and initiating a deep meditation. Repugnant as the task was, if Jim were to agree to his proposal, he would have to hide certain things from him, because 'by no means imaginable' clearly included mind contact. He had also spent some time investigating the records of Station 010, but, much as he expected, nothing crucial was revealed.

It was two minutes past 2300, when Spock pressed the buzz to the Captain's quarters.

"Come."

Kirk was lying on his bed, still in uniform, nursing a book. He looked up with a pleasant smile.

"Spock. Come on in."

"Am I disturbing you, Captain?" Spock asked stepping inside quietly.

"Not that much," Kirk grinned, sitting up. "I have finally finished the evaluations, and decided to reward myself with this," he showed Spock the cover.

"Joyce, Captain?" Spock's eyebrow rose. "An unusual selection for you."

"I was in the unusual mood," he shrugged. "What can I do for you, Mr. Spock?"

He gestured his guest to a chair, and Spock slid into it, eager to put them on one level.

"Jim, I do require your assistance for an experiment of a... personal nature."

Kirk raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Really? Sounds interesting."

"You are aware I believe that, due to my dual ancestry, I have been a keen student of human nature. Over the years I became fascinated with the way humans face life experiences. But observation can only get me so far. In every research there comes a phase when the experiment is due, and I am convinced that I have reached that stage by now."

Kirk frowned slightly, trying to ascertain what he was getting at.

"What do you have in mind, Spock?"

Spock looked him squarely in the eye, disturbed mildly by the fact that the Captain's gaze was carefully veiled.

"A mind-meld. It is the next logical step if I am to determine how the human mind is organized."

"A mind-meld?" Kirk's frown deepened. "Between you and me?"

"Yes, Jim. I have approached you because during our past contacts, superficial as they were, I have discovered that our minds are extremely compatible. It is not often even between Vulcans, and I thought –"

"Mr. Spock, you've melded with humans before," Kirk interrupted him, with a certain measure of impatience. "Doctor Van Gelder, for one. Why do you need me?"

"Doctor Van Gelder was mentally unstable when I melded with him," Spock countered softly. "He cannot be a viable example."

He watched Kirk with carefully concealed apprehension now, as the Captain showed definite signs of resistance, which Spock didn't expect to encounter.

"To be honest, Commander," Kirk stood up, making several steps across the room, before turning to face Spock again, "those contacts between us that you mentioned... I've never been exactly comfortable with them. Your mind powers are a bit disturbing."

"Indeed?" Spock couldn't help his reaction. That was definite and highly disquieting news for him. He did not miss the fact that Kirk was using his best official tone, too. "You did not find them so, when you ordered me to use them with the Mother-Horta."

"Well, I'm not a horta, Mr. Spock," Kirk said, sounding mildly disgusted. "And you and I do have the same communications system, so there's really no need for us to initiate telepathic contact."

"I would not have invaded your privacy," Spock stated quietly. "You would be in complete control of what you wish to share."

"But I don't wish to share!" Kirk snapped. "Sorry," he added more calmly. "I don't think I want to do this, Spock. It's... too personal."

"I understand," Spock said softly.

"It doesn't feel like the right time for you to be conducting personal research anyway, Commander," Kirk's voice became stern. "We're several hours away from the Neutral Zone, and you take your time to talk about human nature instead of concentrating on your duties. I'm surprised at you, Mr. Spock. I have never known you to be negligent, but this might actually constitute for it."

"You are correct, of course," Spock stood up. "I will postpone my research until more appropriate moment."

Kirk fixed him with a tense stare. "I need you to be fully focused on the task, Mr. Spock," he said somewhat softer. "Don't get me wrong, I'm all for initiative, and I've always supported my officers in their projects, but right now neither you, nor I can afford a distraction."

"I understand, Captain," Spock repeated, as he moved towards the door. "I apologize for interrupting your recreation."

"Well, I'm glad we have this out of our way," Kirk nodded dismissively. "Goodnight, Commander."

"Goodnight, sir."

Spock stepped out into the corridor, fighting a very human urge to lean against the nearest wall for a moment. It would be so pleasant to close his eyes and pretend this conversation never happened. But that would be illogical, and his failure to abide by the laws of this one ally that had never deserted him was now hitting back full force. He made a mistake, allowing logic to be deprived of its dominating position in control of his life. Had he stayed emotionally detached, he would never experience this level of devastating confusion and – hurt?

He would simply have acknowledged that, although he did not receive permission to initiate the meld, he had at least received an answer to one of his questions.


	6. Spreading Thin

**Chapter 5**

**Spreading Thin**

"Hold that elevator!"

Automatically, Spock reached out and held the doors with one hand, preventing them from closing.

"Thanks," Kirk panted as he burst in. "Bridge?"

"Affirmative," the Vulcan glanced at him tentatively. "Have you been... jogging, Captain?"

"Damn it, Spock," Kirk laughed softly. "And McCoy says you don't have a sense humor. No, I seem to have overslept, and I'm running late the whole morning."

Spock raised an eyebrow slightly. "But your shift has not begun yet."

"That doesn't mean I don't have any duties," the Captain seemed to have finally gotten his pulse under control. "Look, Spock, about last night..."

"You do not need to explain, Captain," Spock said hastily. "I was out of order."

"No, you weren't," Kirk sighed, staring at the wall. "But I can't do it now. Do you understand?" his eyes met Spock's, and the Vulcan was surprised to see earnest regret there – the regret that did not quite correspond with the cold rebuff of the previous evening. "I'm not saying never, I'm saying – can we wait until we're done here?"

Spock felt at a complete loss of what to think. It was almost as if he was interacting with two different Kirks: one was secretive, cold, harsh in words and actions; the other was the warm and caring human he had always known, the one who had been his closest friend for more than two years.

"Please, Spock," Kirk's voice was barely a whisper. He reached out as if to touch the Vulcan, but suddenly dropped his hand, and averted his eyes. Before Spock could say anything, the doors opened into the muffled buzzing of the Bridge. The Captain walked out of the lift without another word, and Spock could only follow.

He busied himself at his station, checking the ship and crew's status, and overseeing the last preparations for the landing. He heard Kirk engage in the normal Bridge routine, asking for reports and exchanging remarks with duty personnel, as was his habit. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, and Spock couldn't help but feel utterly perplexed about it.

Half the morning had passed, before they finally reached the first planet on their flight plan – Baruna.

"Standard orbit, Mr. Sulu."

"Aye, Captain, standard orbit."

"Mr. Spock," Kirk turned in his chair to the Science station. "Are we ready to begin our mission?"

"Yes, Captain. Doctor McCoy's teams are standing by to install a field hospital. Mr. Sulu and Ms. Quaint will coordinate distribution of supplies. We can start beaming down as soon as Baruna authorities acknowledge our arrival."

"Which will happen –?" Kirk turned to Uhura expectantly.

"Now, sir," she said, listening to her earpiece. "They are signaling we have permission to proceed."

"Excellent," Kirk clasped his hands together. "Notify McCoy he may begin."

"Yes, sir."

"Now, Mr. Spock, what is our status here exactly?"

The Vulcan straightened up and turned to face his Captain calmly.

"We are visitors, sir. Free to move around if that is our convenience."

"Good, that's exactly what I was hoping for!" Kirk exclaimed punching the arm of his chair enthusiastically. "I've heard Baruna had a rather – peculiar entertainment quarter. It would be a shame not to expand our information on this planet."

"Indeed, sir," the Vulcan confirmed, frowning at the same time. "Are you planning on beaming down for that purpose?"

"Affirmative, Mr. Spock. I have to get through some thick reports the Command viewed necessary to send me, and then, I intend to make a thorough research planetside."

"Do you wish me to accompany you?"

If a phaser had spontaneously exploded on the Bridge, it would not have caused such stunned reaction as that simple question. Everyone stared at Spock in deep amazement. Remembering their manners, they managed to busy themselves quickly with their consoles.

"Spock, I would never have believed you were interested in bar hopping," Kirk managed with a sly grin.

"You said it yourself, sir," the Vulcan appeared unperturbed. "A chance to expand our knowledge should never be dismissed."

"Indeed," Kirk laughed softly, getting up to his feet. "Well, I'm afraid the answer is no, Spock. Much as I'd like to get you drunk, I need you to watch over McCoy and smooth things with local authorities. You know how he is when someone gets in his hair. At any rate, I'm sure you'll enjoy the civilized company of the good Doctor far better than that of barbaric local bar crawlers."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Uhura muttered under her breath.

Kirk shot her a sharp look, and Spock predictably ignored. All his attention was focused completely and solely on Kirk.

"Very well, sir," his tone was suddenly grave. "May I at least arrange for a security guard to accompany you?"

Kirk frowned.

"Aren't you being overprotective?"

"Captain, as First Officer, it is my duty to ensure your safety."

"Your report on the planet stated there were no open hostilities."

"It did not state it was a vacation planet, either."

Their eyes locked and held, sending sparkles of tension around them. Kirk was the first one to capitulate. He smiled good-naturally, tilting his head backwards slightly, turning his charm on, full force.

"Oh, come on, Spock. It wouldn't be half that fun if you attach a guard to my tail. I wouldn't feel like a real explorer!"

But Spock was far from playing along, disproving the crew's conviction that no one could resist the Captain's radiant smile. Perhaps it was because, unlike most of them, he saw that the smile had never reached Jim's eyes. He was determined not to let Kirk go alone. He still had no doubts the Captain was not guilty of any transgressions against the Federation, but this sudden persistence to beam down on his own was not helping Spock prove it.

Sensing his tactics was not having effect, Kirk changed it instantly.

"I don't need a babysitter, Mr. Spock. Your concern is noted. But my decision stands."

That didn't leave the First Officer a lot of options.

"Very well, sir," he said impassively. "I shall inform you when our operation is concluded."

"You do that," Kirk nodded, waving his hand dismissively on his way to the turbolift.

Spock watched him go, concern still too evident on the normally expressionless face. He glanced at Uhura, catching her watching him. His frown deepened.

"Lieutenant, page Mr. Scott to the Bridge. Have Ms. Quaint and Mr. Sulu report to the Transporter Room to rendezvous with their assigned teams."

"Aye, sir," she hastened to execute his order, but Spock wasn't paying her any attention.

He turned back to his station, and put in several commands on his console, with breathtaking speed. As soon as Scott showed up, he left the Bridge, unaware of a great number of bewildered glances following him.

--

"Lively there!" Quaint shouted at the top of her lungs. "Keep them in line, Riley, Renseb! If anyone gets hurt in the crowd, I won't be the one to tell Doctor McCoy we have more patients for him!"

"How are you doing here?" Sulu asked her, coming over.

"Not good," she sighed, wiping her forehead with her hand. "But we're managing. We've been distributing food and healthcare supplies for almost eight hours now, but it doesn't look like we'd be closing the shop soon."

"Why don't you sit down for a moment?" he asked, watching her with concern.

"I can't sit down, can't you see what's going on here?" she protested.

"Hey, Riley!" Sulu called out for him. "Take over for Jess for a few moments, will you?"

"Yes, sir," the Irishman came to them on the run, flashed a grin and winked at Quaint. "I've been trying to get her to rest for a while now, but the iron maiden here won't budge."

"She will now," Sulu assured him, gripping her elbow tightly. "Come on, Jess, a five minute break won't kill you."

She bristled irritably, but allowed him to escort her to the blessed shadow of the field tent, and sat down on a cargo container. He studied her warily.

"Oh, honestly, Mr. Sulu!" she snapped suddenly, looking up at him. "I'm not going to break in front of you!"

"I didn't say you were –"

"This is ridiculous," she hissed. "Does the whole ship know about my pregnancy?"

He smiled at her sheepishly.

"Well –"

"You're all savage, medieval people," she grunted. "You're treating me as if I'm made of crystal glass or something."

He shrugged, looking pensive.

"I guess you're triggering our basic protective instinct. You know, a man must defend his mate and their offspring. It's a sacred tradition."

She snorted. "Yeah, and since every man on the ship is treating me in this barbaric fashion, I feel very sacred and very angry. I swear if it wasn't for Commander Spock, I'd gone positively mad by now. He's the only one, who hasn't been acting strangely."

Sulu grinned slyly.

"Sure, he hasn't. He only reminded me three times not to let you overwork, and 'monitor your condition on a regular basis'."

She stared at him, then, sighed, being too tired to argue.

"Well, guess, there's nothing wrong with _his_ basic instincts, either. Look at them," she nodded towards the crowd. "I've been to hundreds of worlds, Hikaru. But I've never seen such poverty, such... desolation."

He nodded grimly. "Difficult to see humans in this stage of degradation. It's hard to believe that had I been born here, I'd be standing in this line now, too."

"The world has little to no resources, and they have no leader who'd unite them and re-organize the society."

He glanced sideways at her. "Do you think we can help them? Apart from giving them food and blankets, I mean?"

She shrugged helplessly. "If the Klingons would allow it – maybe. But I don't think they'd want to have thriving pro-Federation worlds so close to their border. No," she sighed. "It's all we could do to provide for their needs for the moment."

"I still don't understand why we can't leave any technological devices here," Sulu shook his head with a frown. "It's not exactly like they don't know how to use a replicator."

Before she could answer, a loud sound of a compact explosion came, followed closely by cries of pain. Glancing back, Sulu and Quaint saw a smoking replicator pad, the residual sparks running down the panel, and a local boy, who clearly had just been thrown back. A med tech was moving swiftly toward him.

"Yeah," Quaint said. "You were saying?"

"I'd better go get Mandy," Sulu sighed.

"And I suppose this means my break is over."

Fascinated by the whirling of the medical scanner, the boy stopped crying.

--

The shrill voice of Doctor McCoy was carrying far beyond the bounds of the huge field hospital tent.

"Get the hell out of here – it's your people – and you're not helping!"

The local official was backing, without noticing it, as McCoy was advancing on him.

"You must sign the documents," the man was squeaking in panic. "You don't have a Baruna license for medical services..."

"I'm a Starfleet physician, dammit! If you have any problems regarding my medical license – take them up with my commanding officer!"

"I would, but I've been told he's not available..." the man stammered helplessly.

"I don't give a damn about what you've been told!" McCoy exploded. "This is a medical facility! And unless you are a doctor, there's the blasted exit!"

"But –"

"Perhaps, I can be of assistance?" a calm voice came like a cold shower.

The Barunan turned towards the speaker hopefully, like to the last resort. McCoy whirled around far less receptive.

"Nice of you to show up, Spock," he hissed. "Can't you see I can't work in here?"

Spock raised an eyebrow, but otherwise ignored him. His attention was focused on the miserable official.

"Excuse me, sir, we have not been informed additional formalities were due," he stated evenly. "However, I am sure we can reach a satisfactory arrangement shortly. If you will come with me, sir?"

The man was only too glad to get away from the Doctor, who was about to start breathing fire. He strode after the Vulcan happily, not knowing of the latter's growing frustration. He could not know, nor did McCoy, that Spock had spent the better part of the day negotiating with Baruna authorities. As they were many, and there wasn't one common point of reference for any of them, he had found that even his patience was wearing thin.

And then, there was Jim, whose desire to be unobserved while visiting entertainment establishments was nothing new, yet, at the moment, it felt extremely poor timed. The only reassuring factor was Spock's certainty that the Captain had not beamed down yet. Spock had connected his terminal on the Bridge to the transporter and programmed it to send a short message to his communicator when the Captain's pattern would have been loaded into the buffer. The device had been silent so far.

As soon as he left the field hospital tent, taking the relieved Baruna official with him, McCoy resumed treating his many patients. It was frustrating to be dealing with such high number of chronic diseases, which would not have given anyone any grief had they been taken care of in time. What was even more saddening, there was no way to tell how long the effect of his medications was going to last, for the conditions in which these people lived were unlikely to change. McCoy had a distinct impression that the Federation had merely been using these people's appeal for help as a pretext for a reconnaissance mission, and had no intentions of rendering real assistance, and the Doctor was thoroughly disgusted with the idea.

"M'Benga, take over for me here," he told his colleague. "I'm going to visit another settlement."

"What settlement?" Doctor M'Benga stared at him with suspicion.

"The other one, that's across the bay, ten miles from the seaside they tell me."

"That's where the Klingons live."

McCoy looked at him squarely. "There might be people in need of help there."

His younger colleague frowned, not bothering to hide his disapproval.

"They were supposed to come here for help."

"What if they couldn't?" McCoy snapped, his irritation flaring at this sudden resistance. "And I sure as hell haven't seen one blasted Klingon here. D'you think they don't get ill?"

"But you don't even know anything about their physiology–"

"Damn it, M'Benga–"

"Gentlemen, is there a problem?"

McCoy jumped, whirling around to discover Spock standing in the passageway, hands behind his back, the usual solid visualization of Vulcan stoicism.

"Blast your pointy ears, Spock! You're like a goddamned apparition, you know that?"

"Is there a problem?" Spock repeated patiently.

M'Benga seized his chance. "Doctor McCoy is intending to visit another settlement, Mr. Spock, the Klingon village."

One eyebrow elevated, Spock turned to McCoy.

"Surely, you are aware this is not safe."

"Surely, _you_ are aware of the Hippocrates' oath?" McCoy mimicked him in annoyance.

"Doctor M'Benga is correct in stating that you do not have the knowledge of the Klingon physiology."

"Well, I had no blasted knowledge of your physiology, either, Mr. Spock, when that Calliopean beast ripped your guts, and I had to put you back together literary from scratch. Yet, you're standing here now, bothering me like a damn splinter under my nail, alive and well!"

"My condolences for the fact, Doctor," Spock appeared unperturbed. "However, I am obliged to point out that you have not cleared this detour with proper authorities."

"Oh, for heaven's sake! I've seen enough of their blasted authorities to last me a lifetime! Surely, you could have –"

"I was not, in fact, referring to the authorities of Baruna," Spock interrupted him ever so calmly, his even tone driving the Doctor mad.

"Then, what the–?"

"I am in charge of the landing party, Doctor. You have not cleared your intentions with me."

For a moment, McCoy simply stared at him in disbelief. Spock met his gaze stoically.

"Of all the insane things you could have come up with, Spock, this one's bound for the record," the Doctor finally uttered. He was barely controlling his temper. "Since you're standing a foot away from me, tell me, can I have your permission to go, or must I compose a formal request first?"

Spock knew abundantly well that there was no point in trying to reason with this human, when he had set his mind on something. Clearly, the Doctor was determined to go, and his impulse was all too fair, Spock had to admit that.

"You do have my permission. However, it is not wise for you to go alone. Since it is not possible to spare any security personnel, I shall –" Spock froze mid-word, as his communicator beeped softly.

He snapped the device open quickly, but there was no incoming signal. This could only mean one thing. Captain Kirk was finally beaming down.

Spock looked from the communicator to McCoy and back in uncharacteristic helplessness. This was an unsolvable dilemma. He intended to accompany the Doctor, but now he must follow the Captain. He was under orders to do it, and he was determined to – as it was the only way to prove Kirk's innocence. But there was truly not a single security guard to be spared: they were all here, barely enough to prevent any accidents, leaving a skeleton crew aboard, only sufficient to operate the transporter and keep the ship in orbit. And to let McCoy go into a Klingon settlement alone was as good as killing him right where he stood.

"Spock?" McCoy called him back to reality, irritated and perplexed. "Are you still with us?"

"Obviously, Doctor," the Vulcan replied automatically, his mind working feverishly to find a solution. He snapped his communicator open again and activated the com link. "Spock to _Enterprise_."

"Scott here," came the disembodied voice.

"Mr. Scott, how many crewmen do you have on the Bridge?"

"Well, sir, it's just Ensign Chekov, Lieutenant Uhura and meself here. Why?"

"Ensign Chekov must beam down immediately."

"Sir?" Scotty's voice sounded mildly alarmed. "He's manning Sulu's station, keeping us in orbit. I can't beam him down–"

Spock fought the urge to grit his teeth, as precious time was slipping away fast.

"Mr. Scott, man the helm yourself if you have to, but I need Ensign Chekov down here NOW. Spock out."

"Well, I thought that went sweetly," McCoy remarked, watching him in bewilderment. "Didn't your mother teach you to say 'please,' Spock?"

"Wait here till Ensign Chekov arrives," Spock ordered, ignoring the jibe. "He will accompany you to the settlement. Report to Mr. Scott every half hour."

"Report to Scott?" McCoy's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Where are _you_ going?"

But Spock was halfway to the exit already. He didn't pause to look back, much less to give a reply.


	7. Crossing the Line

**Chapter 6**

**Crossing the Line**

He left the hospital on the run to discover that dusk had taken reign on the planet's surface, swallowing long shadows, born in the sunset, and covering the scenery in a murky, grayish haze. Decent street lightning wasn't something Baruna provided in abundance, turning everyone outside into mere silhouettes, blurry and changing. These were not the ideal conditions for tracking down someone who did not wish to be followed.

Reaching the beam down point, Spock activated his tricorder, trying to get a fix on the Captain's communicator. After several unsuccessful attempts, the elusive signal finally registered, giving him at least a general direction. Without further delay, Spock started for it.

Soon enough, he realized that the signal was leading him into the farthest side of the town, the one that did represent the so called 'entertainment quarter.' His surroundings began to reflect that, too, – with crude analogues of flashing signboards, promising all sorts of special adventures and dark pleasures; the escalating variety of species, strolling along the streets, including some Klingons, who were evidently at home here; strange looking females, calling out to passers by from high windows; and a peculiar bouquet of smells, which consisted of alcohol, perfume, food waste, raw skin, bark, burned rubber, and a number of other unidentifiable, but stunningly powerful odors.

Starfleet personnel had not visited that district, and Spock gathered quickly that his uniform was attracting much more attention than he would prefer. Concealing himself in a dark corner for a moment, he got rid of his upper shirt, its sky-blue color being all too noticeable, and repositioned his tricorder in such a fashion that allowed him to check with its readings and stay discreet. His route became slightly easier from that point. People were still looking at him curiously, but not staring, their glances sliding off and away from yet another stranger.

Kirk's signal was steady now, the tricorder directing him to one of the establishments on the other side of the river that was carrying its muddy waters with menacing whisper in bleak moonlight. With some effort, he managed to focus enough to actually see Kirk entering the smaller building, dark and lumpy, like an old Earth mansion, for which nobody cared for a very long time.

There were two bridges in front of him: one broad and well lit, but at some considerable distance; the other narrow and old looking, but situated considerably closer. Without hesitation, Spock chose the smaller one, and stepped onto it tentatively, probing its strength. The wood made a muffled creak under his weight, but did not give. With justifiable amount of caution, Spock proceeded forward, his eyes set on the bar where the Captain had disappeared.

It was hard to tell, whether he became distracted for a moment, or, on the contrary, was concentrating too hard on his goal, but the fact remained that when two tall shadows blocked his way, as he was a couple of feet away from the opposite shore, he was not prepared to see them.

Klingons, he realized, taking in their clothing, heavily decorated with metallic ornaments. One of them was holding a jagged knife in his hand; the other was playing with a short mace.

"Well, well, well, stranger," the one with the knife sneered, looking him up from head to foot. "There's a fee for crossing that bridge."

Sensing another presence behind his back, Spock turned around to see the third Klingon blocking his only way of retreat. That one had his arms folded across his chest, but somehow the immediate absence of any weapon wasn't very reassuring. Spock faced the Klingon who had spoken to him again.

"I carry no money," he informed him coolly.

The Klingon laughed heartily at this, elbowing his comrade, who smirked in appreciation.

"Money! He's talking about money! Look around you, Vulcan. We're in the _entertainment_ quarter! Those get the money here, who provide entertainment. And you can earn us a fortune."

"I do not see how."

"Oh, let's think," the Klingon frowned in mock concentration. "I've heard your people have great tolerance for pain. We could dissect you while you're still alive. Yeah, that'd gather us a crowd."

"Or we could take him to Surla's bordello," his accomplice mused. "She's got that Denebian beast visiting. Give the Vulcan to him. You know they say he's got four–"

"Or maybe," a harsh whisper stirred the hair above his ear, as the foul breath attacked his nose, "I could just take you home for a little family gathering. We have never tasted Vulcan flesh before..."

As if his words were a signal Spock had been waiting for, he attacked. He knew an attempt to draw his phaser would only lose him time, rendering him defenseless long enough for them to make their move, so he didn't reach for it. Instead, his elbow moved swiftly and firmly backwards, striking the cannibal in the solar plexus hard, while his free hand dived for the knife, before the Klingon holding it could react. His body moved instinctively to evade an attack, but the barbed head of the mace made this success only partial, digging furiously into his side, the sharp thorns scratching his ribs.

The struggle was dense and cruel. Spock realized he was unlikely to defeat them, and aimed for the highest possible benefit – regaining a free route of escape. But that, too, started to appear less and less plausible. He managed to deliver a neck pinch to one of the Klingons, but that moment of concentration came for a price of the other two getting an advantage, knocking him off his feet. His head spinning, Spock rolled on his back, prepared for the final exchange of blows, when suddenly a light reddish beam cut the darkness twice, hitting his adversaries in the back. Two immobilized forms slumped heavily at his sides, raising a small cloud of dust into the air.

Fighting disorientation, Spock lifted up his head, focusing with difficulty on the familiar figure, closing in on him fast.

"Spock!" two strong hands gripped his shoulders with painful urgency, helping him sit down. "Spock! Are you all right?"

"Yes, Captain," Spock managed huskily. "I am undamaged."

"Like hell, you're bleeding!"

"Superficial," he replied, his dizziness wearing off. He was indeed sore and beaten, but realized none of his injuries were severe.

The reassuring pressure on his shoulders lifted up abruptly – Kirk removed his hands swiftly, as if the touch burnt. He stood up and made several steps away from Spock, who watched him warily. In a moment, the Captain turned back to face him, and his expression was reserved and angry.

"What the devil are you doing here, Spock?" the harsh voice demanded, as if it had never known the burning concern that infiltrated it only seconds ago. "I told you specifically that I did not need protection. Yet here you are following me anyway! Explain yourself."

Somewhat slowly, Spock came to his feet and straightened up with difficulty.

"Our operation here was nearly over," bravely, he tried for the truth. "I could not reach you to report this and reasoned that it would be best if I had located you."

"Where's your uniform?" Kirk snapped.

"I seem to have misplaced it."

"Really? I find it more likely you didn't think it was the style here. Which means – you planned this."

"Sir, I assure you I had no intention on disrupting your rest." True enough.

"Commander, I gave you a direct order! I expected it to be followed! Do you even realize that had I not looked out of the window – by mere coincidence, Spock! – you'd be dead right now?"

Spock glanced at the building strangely.

"Captain, there–"

A low grunt interrupted him, as one of the Klingons started to stir, making Kirk look at him in disgust.

"Let's get out of here," he muttered, snapping his communicator open. "Kirk to _Enterprise_."

"_Enterprise_, Scott here," came the prompt answer.

"Mr. Scott, two to beam up at these coordinates."

"Aye, sir."

They waited in silence for the order to reach the Transporter Room. Kirk was staring at the gloomy street unseeingly. Spock was watching Kirk. Finally, the familiar sense of the transporter beam being locked came, bringing momentary relief to the two figures, rigid with tension, giving them all too short a break before the dawn of doomsday.

--

"This place gives me creeps," Chekov declared, helping the Doctor to get the bulky bag with medical equipment out of the aircar. "There's not a single person in the street."

McCoy shrugged.

"Guess it's time to make some house calls."

They moved along the dim gloomy alley, looking around warily. Chekov's hand was dancing at his hip, as he apparently was readying himself for instant draw of weapons. Noticing that, McCoy frowned.

"Couldn't you ease off a bit, Ensign?" he asked. "We're here to heal, not to hurt."

"I'm here to protect you, Doctor," Chekov proclaimed pompously. "And I will do so at the cost of my own life."

McCoy shook his head in exasperation.

"Let's hope it won't come to that, or I'll have to patch up yet another body," he muttered acidly.

Chekov flinched, and let his hand drop.

"Some tricorder readings wouldn't hurt," the Doctor continued in the same tone. "Or hasn't Spock taught you anything?"

"Coming up now, sir," blushing, Chekov activated his tricorder hastily. "Lifeforms, Doctor! Fifteen meters – that way!"

They walked towards an old gloomy house, hastened by the unnerving thickening darkness.

"Hello?" McCoy called warily as they entered. "Anybody home? Oh, for the love of my–"

He gasped. They found themselves in a roomy hall, scantly lit and hardly ever cleaned. About twenty Klingon females were sitting in an unclosed circle, looking at the intruders blankly. The overall impression was eerie.

For an indefinite moment, nobody made a sound. Finally, McCoy had cleared his throat nervously.

"Do not be afraid," he said somewhat weakly, ignoring Chekov's incredulous stare. "We're from the Federation starship, we're here to help. Does anyone, uh, does anyone require medical assistance here?"

He looked around expectantly, but nobody moved, much less gave him an answer.

"I wonder where all the males are," Chekov muttered, his head turning around methodically, as he scanned the room for any threat.

"All right then," McCoy shrugged, with a bold attempt of his charming smile. "We'll make it quick."

He moved along the row, pointing his medical scanner at the Klingons. They watched him silently, following him with their eyes, but otherwise staying completely immobile. Having received a rather peculiar reading, the Doctor glanced up at the young female he was scanning, but the question died on his lips, as he bumped into an icy cold expression on her face. He moved on. As he progressed further, his frown deepened, the lines on his face somehow becoming more pronounced, as if he had picked up several years in a matter of seconds.

Slightly bored, Chekov wandered in the opposite direction, staring at the Klingon ladies with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. A young girl caught his eye. About five or six Earth years old, she seemed less frozen than her older companions. She looked at him with childish inquisitiveness, stripped of any fear or caution.

He smiled at her kindly, and she smiled back, making him gasp.

"Doctor!" he cried out, stumbling backwards. "That girl here... she – she's got no tongue!"

McCoy didn't even look at him, continuing on his task.

"Yes, Ensign. None of them do."

"What?"

"None of these women have a tongue anymore. Surgically removed," his eyes narrowed at an odd reading his scanner was giving him, "a long time ago, I'd imagine."

"Oh. Why?"

"How should I know?"

His eyes glued to the scanner, McCoy turned slowly to walk over to the next one, when suddenly he bumped into something... or rather – someone? Up, and up, and up he looked, until finally his gaze settled upon a crude face of perhaps the tallest and the broadest Klingon he had ever seen.

"Hello to you, sir," McCoy smiled at him warmly. "We come in peace –"

The Klingon suddenly grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him up into the air easily. McCoy gasped, clutching the hand of the giant in a futile attempt to get free.

"Chekov!" he yelled, his face turning red. "If you're here to protect me, now would be a good time!"

"It's a little difficult to aim, Doctor," the Ensign replied grumpily. "I'm afraid to hit you!"

"Well, go around, the guy's as big as a blasted mountain!"

"He's blocking my aim every time! Why don't you try to weasel out of your shirt?"

"I'd like to see you try it!"

The Klingon suddenly shook him violently.

"SHUT UP!" he growled, making the wall shudder. "WHAT – ARE – YOU – DOING – HERE?"

"We've come to offer medical assistance," McCoy panted. "Let me go, you overgrown buffoon!" he kicked his captor hard somewhere in the region of his abdomen, but the Klingon didn't even flinch.

"WE – DO NOT – REQUIRE – YOUR - ASSISTANCE!"

"What about your females? I could reconstruct their tongues and they would speak to you again."

"NO!" the Klingon shook him again, making the Doctor's head bounce back and forth. "We cut their tongues so that they would stop shaming us!"

"Sha-a-a-a-a-aming you? For wh-wh-wh-wh-wha-a-at?"

"We refuse to fight without reason, like our witless brothers on Kronos! But they -" he nodded towards the females furiously, "- they don't want to forget their _Klingon_ honor. Tell us stories, legends... they want us to return to the Empire, nagging, and nagging, making us want to leave the system."

"You should make friends with Harry Mudd," McCoy grumbled.

"Doctor..." Chekov groaned.

"So instead we made them shut up for good! And now they are silent."

"I can see that," McCoy confirmed. "But surely the little girl wasn't nagging you too much?"

Another thorough shake, accompanied with another roar.

"ALL FEMALES ARE EVIL!"

"Hey, you'll get no argument from a divorced guy, but wouldn't you better talk, with me on the ground? Aren't you tired of holding me up like that?"

The Klingon shook him again in reply.

"I do not think so, Doctor," Chekov commented.

"All right, how about a deal?" McCoy asked weakly.

"A DEAL?"

"Yes, a deal. You let me go – we leave. How about that?"

The Klingon's head fell backwards, and a series of foul deafening sounds emerged. He was laughing.

"YOU ARE FUNNY, HUMAN. I WILL LET YOU GO."

His hand unclenched, and the Doctor fell to the floor heavily. The females continued to watch the whole event impassively, as if not only their tongues were cut out, but everything that made them alive as well.

"Are you all right, Doctor?" Chekov asked.

"Oh, yes, Ensign," McCoy snapped acidly. "Thank you so much for your kind concern!"

"I think we should get out of here."

"A timely suggestion," he came to his feet shakily.

"MOVE!" the giant Klingon growled, and they found themselves to be on their way faster than they realized it was happening.

The street looked distinctly different, when they emerged from the calamitous house. The major distinction was not that it now was completely dark, however. The major distinction was that it was now completely dark, but for the torches in the hands of every male Klingon, who apparently lived in the settlement. They formed a live corridor from the porch to the aircar, and were looking at the unasked guests fixedly. Some were sneering.

Glancing at each other quickly, McCoy and Chekov started for the car, trying to walk as fast as possible and not to lose dignity completely at the same time. Only when the hatch was closed, and they rose up into the air, did McCoy breathe out with relief.

"You know, Ensign," he turned to look at Chekov. "It was a nice job you did protecting me."

The Russian looked at him and smiled reassuringly.

"You're alive, aren't you?"

"That's kind of hard to deny."

"Well, then, what are you complaining about?"

For a moment, the Doctor stared at him, speechless, then shook his head and smiled reminiscently. It was good to be young, after all.

--

Lieutenant Kyle watched as the re-materialization haze was slowly letting go of the Captain and the First Officer. He looked at them curiously, as they hadn't beamed down together. His eyes widened as he took in Spock's appearance. It wasn't often that any of them saw Spock out of uniform. And... was that blood?

Kirk sprang down from the pad, looking irritated, if not downright furious, and came over to Kyle's console, punching the com panel.

"Kirk to Bridge."

"Scott here."

"Ship's status, Mr. Scott?"

"All is well, Captain," the Engineer sounded mildly subdued. "The systems are all functioning normally, but the lads are wee bit tired. We needed some back at duty stations at once to keep us going, sir."

"Yes," Kirk nodded, rubbing his eyes. "Have Doctor McCoy distribute some stimulants. I know he's not going to be happy, but it's only for a shift's time and–"

"Captain, the Doctor isn't on board yet."

"What? I thought you said the operation was nearly over?" he was looking at Spock, but Scotty, of course, couldn't see this.

"Er, yes, well... I understood the Doctor had to run an errand somewhere outside the town or something."

"Outside the town?" Kirk's tone became alarmed. "He didn't go alone, did he?"

"No, sir, Mr. Spock requested Ensign Chekov to accompany him."

"Wasn't Chekov supposed to be manning the helm?"

"Uh, well, yes, Captain. But it's all right now, really," he added hastily. "We dinna break into anything."

Kirk was not one bit amused.

"Acknowledged, Mr. Scott. I'll relieve you shortly. Kirk out."

His face was dark like a storm cloud, and Kyle was only too happy, when he snapped at him, "Mr. Kyle, kindly step out for a moment."

"Yes, sir," he did not intend to stay long enough to be asked twice.

As soon as the doors closed behind him, Kirk rounded on the Vulcan, who had stepped down, too, by that time, and was waiting patiently.

"I believe some explanations are due, Commander," Kirk's tone was icy. "Not only have you disobeyed my direct order, you left the landing operation unsupervised in its critical stage, sent my CMO into a danger zone without proper protection, and endangered the ship by leaving nobody at the helm! Has it slipped from your mind somehow that we're in the Neutral Zone? We agreed that each and every person staying on board was absolutely essential, we took much risk as it was – what were you doing disrupting this shaky arrangement? What if the ship was attacked, Mr. Spock? Where's a single piece of logic in all the mess you've created to suit your wishes? Don't just stand there staring at me – I'm asking you!"

"You are correct in your assessment of my actions," Spock admitted calmly. "The only explanation I can give you is that I was concerned about your safety."

That, however, seemed only to make the Captain's anger flare up.

"Good grief, Spock! I'm a big boy! I've been a big boy since about eight. D'you really think I can't take care of myself?"

"Captain, I only –"

"You only what, Mr. Spock? I'm trying to decide whether to charge you with insubordination, culpable negligence, abuse of authority or with all this together. And I'm going to have a talk with Scotty, too, he should have told you for once to mind your own business."

"I did not give him much choice, Captain."

"So it would seem. At least somebody here follows orders. Damn it, Spock! I've been trying to deal with your obsessive desire to control my every move for a long time in hopes that you'd reach a limit sooner or later, but this doesn't seem to be happening, does it? You think it's your prerogative to be my overseer? Who granted you with the right?"

"Captain?" Spock asked, his tone distinctly helpless.

"For heaven's sake! Can't you bear it to leave me out of your sight even for a short while? Are you this desperate? I only asked for a couple of hours alone – and I almost had them, but then you turned up and ruined everything!"

"That was not my intention, Captain."

"That's never your intention, but that's always what's happening! God, I swear I tried. I tried to be patient, I tried to be polite, but that really does it, I can't take it anymore!"

Spock was staring at him blankly. For a moment he wondered if the language Kirk was using was still Standard. Kirk punched the air in frustration.

"Oh, can't you see, Spock? Whenever I turn my head – you're always there, like a goddamned tail! You're always with me – on duty, off duty, in the mess, in the gym, and, with all those late-night chess games in my quarters, one might think you'd moved there! You're like a damn shadow, Spock, I can't shake you off!"

"I was not aware that my presence caused you so much discomfort," Spock replied quietly.

He felt utterly confused and... what was that strange pulling sensation making his stomach cringe in revolt? It almost felt like ice-cold acid was slowly eating up his insides. For the first time in his life, the words were thrown at him faster than he could comprehend, raising a hurricane of chaos inside of him. All he could see clearly now through its clutches was that the Captain appeared desperate because of some grievous wrong Spock had done to him.

"No, of course you weren't, were you?" Kirk exclaimed in exasperation. "For you, it's all logical equations. You wouldn't know if my heart sprang out in front of you and broke, you wouldn't even notice!" his agitation seemed to reach its peak stages. "You're just callous, Spock! I know it's not your fault, it's your damn nature, but how dare you even indicate that you may be aware of my discomfort? How can you know how tiring it is to have that constant presence at your side, judging your every move? No sympathy, no compassion, just never ceasing appraisals of my performance! And when I want to break free – just for an hour – to have a gulp of fresh air, to catch my breath maybe, I find I can't do that! I'm tired sick of you, Spock. Even for a moment, I can't get rid of you."

The Vulcan looked at him steadily. Whatever emotions might have been lurking in his eyes during Kirk's tirade, they were now gone.

"All you ever had to do was ask, Captain," he informed him coolly. "I would never have presumed upon your time, had I known it was not what you wished for."

"Things like that are not said, Mr. Spock," Kirk sighed, his fatigue showing. "We humans usually just feel when we're overstating our welcome. I suppose I should have told you this before, but... I was probably indulging my own compassion. I know there aren't a lot of those aboard who'd find your company gratifying. Guess I went too far. Sorry, shouldn't yell at you now, either. It's not your fault."

Spock bowed his head ever so slightly.

"I am pleased the conversation has taken place," he stated. "It was most illuminating. I apologize once again for intruding tonight, and for all past violations of your privacy. This will not happen again. Now, I would be grateful if you tell me what disciplinary action you see fit regarding my actions today-"

"No disciplinary action," Kirk shook his head. "Exactly how would I log one, anyway? I can hardly say that my Vulcan First Officer has a problem assimilating logic. I have to answer enough awkward questions about your bizarre behavior as it is. But if you ever do that again..."

"You have been the lucidity itself, sir, I do not believe you have to clarify the consequences any further."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"Then, Captain, if you will excuse me?"

Kirk nodded dismissively, and the First Officer headed for the doors.

"Spock," Kirk called after him. The Vulcan turned to face him. "I don't want to find a request for transfer on my desk because of this. You're still my best officer, and I don't want to lose you. I just need some room to breathe, that's all."

"I understand, sir," Spock replied gravely.

"Well, then. That's settled."

Spock nodded silently, and walked out.

In the corridor, Lieutenant Kyle was ready to climb the walls. Spock fixed him with a blank stare.

"I believe you may now resume your station, Mr. Kyle," the Vulcan informed him, as he passed by.

"Thank you, sir," Kyle breathed out in relief.

As he reentered the Transporter Room, he found his Captain leaning on the console for support, his hands covering his face. His stance was projecting an unmistakable and powerful impression of desolation and mortal pain. The impression was so strong – it was almost palpable, and, quite inexplicably, Kyle shivered.

"Captain?" he called warily. "Are you all right?"

Kirk straightened up instantly, his face turning cold and forbidding with breathtaking swiftness.

"Yes, Mr. Kyle, quite. Carry on."

He walked out of the room quickly, leaving a very confused Lieutenant behind.


	8. The Vigil

**Chapter 7**

**The Vigil**

If Romulans were creatures of duty, and took their descent from Vulcans of the past, it would be only logical to assume that Vulcans were driven by duty even more so, though how that was possible was hard to tell. It was not that hard, however, to conclude that Commander Spock took his duties very seriously and was determined not to let anything interfere with his performance, even if that anything was wrenching and tearing his insides into a bloody mess. He would simply not allow it to register until his duty was fulfilled.

He marched confidently to his quarters, engaging a security lock, which he had never done before. But he had never had an assignment quite like this before, had he? Just as confidently, he sat at his desk to compose a report to Admiral Lewton.

The report wasn't informative, Spock knew that. Yes, he had followed the Captain to the surface. He had seen him enter a bar. Had been attacked shortly after that. Had been rescued by the same Captain. Recommend not repeat the same action in view of its pointlessness and the Captain's apparent awareness of being under surveillance.

Spock coded the report carefully and sent it, hooking directly to the communications station, masking it as a planetary survey. It took some doing, but was a relatively easy task for someone with A7 grade in computer science.

After completing this task, he went to the bathroom to take care of his injuries. Somehow, he had no particular desire to visit Sick Bay. Carefully, he removed the remains of his regulation T-shirt from the wound, expecting a certain measure of physical discomfort as the pieces of fabric would have to be ripped from the damaged skin, glued to it by clotted blood. Strangely, he felt no pain at all, even as he saw the fresh blood pouring out again.

The sight struck him as distinctly odd.

His logical mind was telling him there should have been pain. There was none. He felt absolutely nothing, as if his body was a dummy, used for Starfleet first aid training courses. Cleaning the wound and dressing it, he realized he did not feel any pain from his other injuries, either. How was it possible now, if down there on the planet, he was the first one to acknowledge that he _was_, in fact, beaten and sore, and he remembered the sensations acutely?

And then, meeting his own gaze in the mirror, he suddenly realized what had occurred. Instinctively, he must have erected his shields so high and reinforced them to such degree, that it made him literary unable to feel _anything_. A decision, made so deeply in the subconscious, it never registered.

Tentatively, he probed his defenses from the inside and sighed. Strong. So strong, it would take forever to dismantle them.

This only happened to him once before, and was as much an instinctive and uncontrollable reaction then, as it was now. He was twelve years old. While accompanying his parents to Rigel IV, where Sarek had taken part in a conference, left to his own devices, he went out alone to explore the caves outside the city. Not noticing the 'danger' sign, he proceeded to end up badly injured by the cave's inhabitants. He remembered waking up in a pool of blood, feeling absolutely nothing. He then rose up and walked all the way back to the city, without realizing he was on the verge of death. When Amanda saw him enter their cabin, greeting her politely and starting for his room to 'change before dinner,' she almost fainted. Only then, seeing her face, white with terror, did he realize something was very wrong with him. The pain had finally caught up, smashing the dam that his mind had constructed to allow him to function long enough to get help. Later, Sarek explained it to be part of the Vulcans' survival instinct, activated only in time of extreme peril to the body.

However hard he had tried on several occasions to achieve the same level of emotional detachment later, he had never managed to submerge his feelings so completely. Evidently, it wasn't something he could do consciously. The closest he had ever come to that, was almost three hundred years ago, in New York.

Back then, he found himself unable to withstand overly strong emotional turmoil, created both by Jim and his own mixed feelings. Jim was in pain, which made him angry and frustrated, and with or without meaning, he was taking it all out on Spock, too preoccupied and disturbed to take the Vulcan into consideration. It was not the first time, and however uncomfortable Spock had found that, he was prepared to deal with it, offering as much support and comfort as possible, if even by simply accepting the blame.

He had never enjoyed the experience, but he always felt privileged, at the same time, to be that one shoulder Jim would use to either cry on, or punch in frustration. He knew that at moments like those, he was seeing the side of Jim he never normally showed to anyone. The side he would only acknowledge to exist when he was alone – or with Spock, and sometimes, more rarely, McCoy. But the good doctor was not there to help either of them on that particular occasion, and Spock knew he must be prepared to exercise enough willpower and character strength to get them both through the ordeal.

What he was not prepared to deal with were his own emotions, long time awakened, suddenly active. However much McCoy had taunted him into showing some of his inner side, he did not believe the Doctor would have been pleased to see it. Was it the time travel that had affected him so, or simply he had finally reached the point when his reluctance to be subjected to human emotions shattered, but there was no hiding from his suddenly revolting feelings.

Worry for McCoy, anxiety about the future, apprehension of making a wrong decision, fear mixed up with shame that he would not be able to provide Jim with the solution he needed, hurt of having to hurt Jim by delivering the truth, hurt of accepting the blame for it, hurt – and that came as the most astounding surprise – of being so utterly neglected, of not even being a part of Jim's equation, a feeling as illogical, as it was selfish, and yet it was there, no denying that, and he felt so dirty and contaminated by it, he could hardly stand the burden...

He was disgusted with his own conduct, as apparently was Jim. For the first time, a realization came to him that if he had by some fluke of fate been changed into an emotional being, he would not have turned out to be a pleasant one, or, the way McCoy would have put it, fun to be around.

He had spent weeks afterwards, sorting all of this out, but back there on that 1930 Earth, he reached for the method that would allow him to concentrate on the task of saving their future for them, and he chose the first one that sprang to mind – total suppression.

But even then, when the necessity was so clear and vital, he did not reach that point of absolute emotional numbness he had experienced at the age of twelve. The one he was experiencing now.

_And if my body is not on the verge of death_, he thought, _why has that formidable instinct taken charge?_

Finishing his efficient, if somewhat inelegant, first aid exercises, he stepped into the sleeping area, slid down onto the meditation mat and concentrated. Well aware of what he was about to expose himself to, he started to methodically dismantle the protective shields, layer by layer, without mercy. Hiding from the truth was never his conscious choice.

The sensations that started to rise from his injuries served as indicators, telling him how far he still was from the normal level of internal accord. When his side started to positively burn with pulsing pain, he knew he had reached it. Now was the time to access the memories.

Emotionally charged – and highly so – words were floating across his mind again.

'I gave you an order – explain yourself!'

Anger. Very concentrated, all directed at him, sending his primary reactions to overload. _It was not my intention, Jim. I was ordered to. _A shallow excuse, indeed.

'I've been trying to deal with your obsessive wish to control my every move–'

Translation: I tolerated as much as I could, but you've gone too far_. I never wished to control you, Jim. It would be illogical for anyone to even try. And why would I want to do that? I value you the way you are. Do you not see this?_

'I turn my head – and you're always there – like a damn shadow – I can't shake you off!'

That hit him so hard, like no physical blow could. Indeed, he spent a lot of time with Jim. Way more than a first officer should be spending with his captain. He found it... agreeable to be in Jim's company even when their duties did not require it. Jim never gave any sign he was displeased with that. Or was it that Spock simply couldn't read the signs correctly? Was it perhaps that he was oblivious to any signs, since so clearly he enjoyed their time together? Had his selfishness gone so far that in blind pursuit of his own desires, all of which were illogical to begin with, he completely disregarded the wishes of the other?

Or should he make it 'others?' Were other people, apart from Jim, suffering as well, having to endure his company? Ever since the Captain came on board, or maybe just a little earlier, he started to be slightly more open to the people surrounding him, his fellow officers and colleagues. Had he misread their reactions as well? McCoy had often told him he was unbearable, but, for some reason, Spock had never taken him seriously on that. Was he wrong not to accept the Doctor's remarks at face value?

'I was probably indulging my own compassion. I know there aren't a lot of those aboard who'd find your company gratifying.'

Yes, he had always known that, only... forgotten for some reason. _Why have I forgotten that? How could I? There had been times when this truth was as clear to me as it was for everyone else._

A slight stiffening of stance here, a broken conversation there... He never gave it much thought, for it was illogical, but he had always noted, though he came to think that mainly they were reacting to him, being a senior officer, not _just_ him. He had sometimes seen similar reaction, induced by Jim. Still, it seemed now he was incorrect in this supposition as well.

Suddenly, he realized he was clutching his sides and swaying slightly, as if trying to rock the pain out. He did not know if it was normal human reaction, but it surely was not the norm for a Vulcan. This absurd behavior had to stop. He would adjust to the truth, there was no other logical option.

Rejected by his homeplanet, for an unforgivably long time, he had harbored a delusion that Starfleet and the _Enterprise_ had become his home, and that he would not, after all, have to go through life alone. The Captain had helped him to see the real picture. Undoubtedly, it had been a painful task for an emotionally-driven being, so full of compassion and kindness, but he had no choice, had he? Spock was not going to discover the truth on his own.

Sometime in the future, when the Captain would be able to tolerate his company again for a while, he should thank him for opening his eyes to the truth, despite great personal discomfort. For now, he could only do what little was asked of him – stay out of Jim's way and concentrate fully on his duties. That was what he was designed to be.

He stood up slowly, ordering his arms to fall to his sides. He would require rest before returning to duty. Strange, he thought suddenly. He did not remember seeing any cuts or bruises on his face, yet the skin on his cheeks felt wet with hot liquid. He raised a hand and brushed it off, ready to see his palm turning green with blood from some forgotten injury. But there was only clean, transparent fluid, barely detectable on his skin.

Do. Not. Think. About. That.

Decisively and efficiently, he quickly wiped his face dry, and ordered the lights out.

--

"Stimulants," McCoy muttered darkly, snapping his bag shut, and starting towards the exit of the Engineering. "Next thing we know, we'll be mental vegetables, controlled through chemicals and living to serve the blasted machines."

"Now, that's an optimistic way of seeing things, Doctor," Assistant Chief Engineer Madeline Mathewson chided him softly. "If Scotty were here –"

"If Scotty were here, I'd have his head," McCoy promised with conviction of a known dragon slayer. "You see that he stays off his feet for another shift at least, or I'll have yours as well."

"My God, Doctor. You're really one of them, motivation folks, aren't you?" Mandy grinned wryly, stifling a yawn. "I'm fine, I'm fine," she added tiredly, as he made for his medical scanner. "Could use some sleep, but I'll manage. One planet behind us, seven more to go."

"I hate to think what we all are gonna look like after the seventh," McCoy shook his head. "Now, call me if anyone needs help."

"Sure will, Doc. Thanks."

His pace was considerably slower than usual, as he walked out of Engineering into a dimly lit corridor. That wouldn't do, he thought. He had spent almost twenty six hours on his feet by then, and not exactly easy hours those were, too. But when he and Chekov had finally beamed back to the ship, he discovered he couldn't take a rest yet. However, seeing strange colors and having difficulty walking straight was not good at all, as he still had a job to do. Checking quickly that he was alone, he increased the normal dosage of a stimulant and pressed the hypo against his own shoulder. He would undoubtedly have to pay for it later, but after Gamma was over M'Benga would be rested enough to take over for him.

Now that his vision was clearing, and borrowed artificial energy was feeling his veins, he glanced around in exasperation, realizing he had made a wrong turn, and was now headed for the ship's least popular sectors – maintenance, backup systems, recycling facilities and automated engineering stations. Worth checking anyway, since he was there. And there was another turbolift at the end of the zone.

As he entered the hall, heavily furnished with technical equipment, and the sounds of machinery surrounded him, McCoy felt a thin stream of sweat sliding down his spine. Stimulants and unnatural ambience made him jumpy. He checked out the two technicians he found exchanging grim jokes over a half-open plasma conduit which they were about to repair. The scene was grotesque and eerie, and the Doctor was happy to be out of the room.

He stepped into a hydroponics lab, which was empty, and then to a narrow passage that led to the recycling station. Funny, he thought with grave irony. He never thought he'd become this familiar with the ship's insides, when he first set foot on its decks. In fact, he managed to get lost on his first day, while walking through quite conventional areas.

"Jesus!" McCoy exclaimed as a dark figure suddenly blocked his way. "Mr. Renseb?"

The young Lieutenant looked at him apologetically, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

"Sorry, Doctor," he stammered. "I didn't mean to–"

"What are you doing here?" McCoy frowned at him, taking in dark shadows under the young man's eyes. "I thought all blue-shirts were ordered off-duty."

"I have a project that requires supervision, sir," he replied, looking at the floor. "I promised Mr. Spock it'd be ready by tomorrow, and–"

"But surely," McCoy felt an upsurge of anger, "surely, even Spock couldn't have ordered you to watch over it after what you've just been through on the planet?"

"Yes, sir! I mean, no, sir! He didn't," Renseb was now red as a ripe tomato. "He doesn't expect me to be ready with it until Monday, but I thought if I'd be done with it faster–"

"Mr. Spock will be properly impressed?"

The Lieutenant nodded miserably, and McCoy sighed.

"Mr. Renseb, there are more pleasant ways of committing suicide than trying to impress a Vulcan, especially, that Vulcan. You're on medical leave till twelve hundred hours, and don't you dare set one foot out of your cabin until then. That's an order."

"Yes, sir," the young man sighed heavily.

"Oh, cheer up, Mr. Renseb," McCoy called after him. "I'll make sure Mr. Spock is duly impressed by your discipline."

The Lieutenant smiled appreciatively, and walked out the same way McCoy came in. Shaking his head in exasperation, the Doctor continued his tour of the lower decks.

Forty minutes later, when he strode, tired and sore, out of the turbolift on Deck Four, a cup of coffee was all he could think about. Five and a half hours still to go. Maybe, M'Benga would have the sense to come in a little earlier. Just a little, really. A tiny little bit.

As he walked into the Rec Room, the presence of other people didn't even register at first. It was only when the rich smell of coffee reached his nose, did he look around to see four very apprehensive pairs of eyes staring back at him.

Uhura, Quaint, Chapel – and Scotty!

The Engineer looked particularly anxious, a guilty look on his face said it all.

"Right," McCoy mumbled, picking his own cup. "Why do I care? Go on, get yourselves a pretty little cardiac arrest. What's the point of being Chief Medical Officer, anyway?"

"I couldn't sleep, Doctor," Scotty said apologetically. "I tried, honestly, but I couldn't do it."

"And instead of asking me to help you sleep, you found nothing better than to come here to the nightly gathering of your little 'Drive-Doctor-McCoy-Crazy' club? Appreciate it, Scotty. Let's see how far this blasted ship will go when her Chief Engineer collapses from exhaustion. And you, Lieutenant," he nailed Quaint with an icy glance, "I thought you would have more sense."

"I could not sleep, either, Doctor," she said quietly.

He shook his head silently, too tired and frustrated to argue. He sat down at another table.

"So," he cleared his throat after a couple of minutes of tense silence. "Since we're all here, let's talk about what made you going. By the way, Uhura, who's in charge of the Bridge now? Spock?"

She shook her head. "The Captain."

That made both his eyebrows crawl up.

"Really? Our resident Vulcan seems to be getting sloppy."

Quaint tensed, Chapel looked down at her hands. Scotty frowned.

"From what I've heard, it was no exactly easy down there, Doctor," he said. "The Captain was only there for two hours."

"Oh yes, that must be so bloody logical," McCoy spat. "Who cares that Jim had had a twenty eight hour day and doesn't have this blasted Vulcan stamina."

"Leonard," Christine said softly, standing up and coming over to him slowly, her worried eyes shiny with sympathy. "You need to go to your quarters. Now."

He laughed sarcastically. "So now you're the CMO here?"

"You need to rest," she insisted. "I've been watching you throughout the day. You've never even sat down."

"It's been the hardest on you, wasn't it?" Quaint put in gently. "We only saw glimpses of their life. But you... You and Chris took the bullet we all dodged."

"That's why neither of us can sleep," Christine whispered, sliding on the chair next to him, and taking his hand in hers. "I keep see their faces... Their voices asking if we would be back, and I didn't know what to tell them. How to explain that weren't going to..." her voice trailed off.

"At the Academy, they taught us to stay detached," Quaint noted. "Not to allow feelings interfere with our work. Always be professional, cool, aloof. To be more like..."

"Vulcans," McCoy finished softly, his fatigue-born anger draining. "Yes. Never really works, does it? Never thought I'd say it, but... I envy Spock."

The ensuing silence was full of painful images, shared between the group, dedicated, trained, and yet still – human. At long last, Scotty raised up his head to look at Uhura.

"Lass," he croaked hoarsely, startling her. "Could you no sing for us?"

She looked at the others uncertainly. McCoy's lips twitched as if he was about to smile reassuringly, but couldn't manage, and simply nodded. So did Christine. Quaint caught Uhura's gaze and said quietly, "Please, Ny."

Uhura looked pensive for a moment, overwhelming sadness flooding her thoughts. In a soft, delicate contralto, she started to sing that one song that spoke of the same dream to all of them, that reminded them of why they were there, among the starts, where man had no place to be, as he had no wings to fly.

"_The skies are green and glowing_

_Where my heart is, where my heart is, where..."_

The words washed over McCoy like gentle waves, consoling, caressing, soothing. He always loved it when Uhura sang. And now – now, for the first time in nearly two days, he felt something inside him give, some string being torn, and he could suddenly breathe without restraint again...

"_...__ the scented lunar flower is blooming_

_Somewhere, beyond the stars,_

_Beyond Antares..."_

The frown on Scotty's face was fading. He was looking at Uhura, but he was hardly seeing her. Instead the vision was born in his mind's eye, the vision – or a memory – of green lawns, grey rocks, lilac skies and the misty emerald eyes of the girl, who disappeared into the fog, leaving a warm kiss on his cheek...

"_...__ I'll be back though it takes forever_

_Forever is just a day._

_Forever is just another journey_

_Tomorrow a stop along the way..."_

Tears were streaming down Quaint's face, and she didn't stop them. She kept seeing the boy, who was hit by the replicator short-circuit. His eyes, wide with unexpected pain. She thought about her unborn child and the long, so very long journey ahead of her. The journey that would forever part her from her friends, from everything she held dear, from the only man she'd ever truly loved...

"_...__ And let the years go fading_

_Where my heart is, where my heart is..."_

Christine was crying silently, too. Never had her friend's singing touched the inner strings of her soul the way it did that gloomy night. Years to come, she would remember it, and carry the memory with her till the very last day...

"_... Where... my love eternally is waiting_

_Somewhere, beyond the stars_

_Beyond Antares..."_

Just as the last notes of Uhura's song faded, McCoy thought he saw a shadow in the doorway, almost as if someone was standing there a moment ago, and was now gone. He shifted in his seat, trying to cast out the illusion.

"Thank you," Quaint whispered, wiping her face. "Well... I'd better... go," she stood up stiffly. "Turn in."

"I'll see you to your quarters," Uhura said immediately. "I don't think it's a good night to be alone."

"Thanks," a tentative, grateful smile.

Arms entwined around each other's waists, they left.

"Let's go," Chapel rose, too, and tugged McCoy up. "I'll stay up till eight hundred and wake you if anyone needs anything," she promised, before he could offer an argument. "Give it up, Len. You're in no condition to even scold me for being out of order."

"Did I ever scold you for being out of order?" he asked with mild humor, capitulating.

"I hope to never see you try. Goodnight, Scotty."

"Night, lassie. Night, Doctor."

The Engineer watched them go with a half smile playing on his lips. He was tired, too, but he didn't feel like sleeping. Uhura's song was almost like a spell, lifting up their hearts, even as their minds still knew the truth of the brutal reality.

There was only one place for him to go, now that his friends were gone to their hopefully peaceful dreams.

"Aye, Mandy, I'm coming," Scott muttered, getting up to his feet. "Let's tuck our little darlings in."

He strode into the corridor, humming softly to himself.

"Somewhere, beyond the stars... Beyond Antares..."

--

**A/N: **The song lyrics by Gene L. Coon.


	9. The Lull before the Storm

**Chapter 8**

**The Lull before the Storm**

Admiral Lewton wasn't happy. Admittedly, he had little reason to be happy with Spock after Baruna, and even less after Korrias, where the Vulcan wasn't able to follow the Captain to the planet's surface at all.

He tried, though without much fervor, to explain that the Captain had ordered him to stay on board, but this card didn't play well with the Admiral.

'Have I or have I not told you that you're in my direct subordination, Commander?' Lewton had snapped. 'My orders take precedence over Kirk's. I don't care if he puts you in the brig for disobeying him, as long as you get the job done, is that clear?'

Spock had assured him that it would not happen again, though as the third planet on their tour was coming closer, he realized it would not be an easy task. He would really have to choose which order to obey or disobey, and his logic was going in circles, stumbling and making double takes, like a broken mechanism, in which various details were going haywire.

And then, he had that other duty – to keep his distance. After the exceptionally revealing conversation in the Transporter Room, Kirk's behavior toward him was irreproachably polite, though somewhat reserved. While they were on duty, the Captain only spoke to him when necessary, but was not hiding from contact either. He made no effort to avoid Spock, evidently leaving the chore to the Vulcan.

To everyone else, all might well have seemed as it was, the ship was still being run smoothly, and if the Captain didn't occasionally challenge his First Officer to a discussion, or spare any time teasing him gently about his faith in logic – well, those were the trying times, weren't they? Nobody felt particularly like joking anymore.

To Spock, however, the difference was deep as an abyss. It was not just the casual way in which the Captain had asked for his opinion that was missing. Something intangible, the connection they shared from the very first moment when they had been introduced to each other by Doctor Piper, was dead now, and Spock, at least, was feeling it acutely. He checked with Life Support twice only to confirm that the ship's temperature hadn't dropped any lower, so no hypothetical malfunction might have been the cause of him feeling constantly chilly.

The change seemed so immense to him that, for some time, he was worried that others would notice it, too, and there would be a lot of awkward questions to be answered. But after a few days, he realized, with a mixture of relief and regret that it was not going to happen. Everyone around him was too much preoccupied, completely engaged in their gruesome mission to notice anything.

Between having to organize another field medical service and dealing with aftereffects of the landings on their own crew, McCoy was hardly ever seen on the Bridge for the last fortnight. He was not on the best of terms with Spock, either, after he had discovered the Vulcan's clumsy attempts to heal his wound.

Spock had fought for two nights in a row for concentration, but the Healing Trance, as well as any other form of trance, was eluding him for the moment. He still had no intention of alerting the Doctor of his predicament, but it revealed itself during one of his regular tours through ship's departments to collect progress reports. He was already leaving Sick Bay, having been briefed curtly and grumpily by the busy and tired Doctor, when, giving way to a hurrying nurse, he stepped under one of the wall scanners. The device gave a shriek as loud, as it was unexpected, making every head turn onto him.

"Hold right there!" McCoy practically snarled, getting to him in one swift motion, which made Spock's eyebrow rise in surprise, as he did not know that such speed was possible for this particular human. One glance thrown at the scanner, and McCoy's eyes, boiling with fury, bored into his. "Just when were you going to inform me that you've had half your side torn apart?"

"The injury was superficial," Spock explained coldly. "You have more important duties."

"Since when is your health unimportant?" McCoy snapped. "On the examination table – now, Mr. Spock, or I'm calling in security."

"This will not be necessary," Spock assured him. "I will comply."

He hopped onto the table obediently, while McCoy summoned a nurse to his side with a quick gesture of his hand.

"Shirt off," he ordered.

Again, Spock complied, without a protest.

"Oh, holy hell," McCoy breathed out heavily. "Superficial!" he glanced at the Nurse in disgust. "He calls this superficial! The bleeding doesn't stop, there're sings of infection in your bone tissue, and this skin will have to be removed. Oh, Spock," he sighed in frustration, "one of these days..." he cut himself short and turned to the Nurse. "Give me ten ccs of feruline and bring that kit M'Benga's been toying with. Let's see how handy his improvements come, this one's definitely called for it."

"Yes, Doctor," Chapel replied, winking at Spock, as if to say 'don't take him too seriously.'

McCoy glanced at the pain indicators and shook his head. "Hurts like hell, doesn't it? It's been for days, too," his eyes surveyed the First Officer with a peculiar mixture of sympathy and exasperation. "You stupid, stubborn pointy eared Vulcan, why didn't you say anything? Or were you that scared of my beads and rattles?"

Uncharacteristically, Spock didn't rise to the bait. McCoy's eyebrows creased slightly, as he studied the severe marbled mask that shielded the impassive, but in a way strangely talkative face of his friend. The Doctor decided to change the tactics.

"When did it happen, Spock?" McCoy asked even as he bent over the injury to examine it closely. "On the planet?"

Spock didn't answer. He realized it was not the wisest decision, but he couldn't exactly tell the Doctor the details of his mission – or its progress. Cued by his meaningful silence, McCoy glanced up, his blue eyes turning icy and painfully sharp.

"Well?" he demanded.

Spock realized he would have to give some answer.

"Yes, it did occur while I was on Baruna, Doctor, though I prefer not to disclose the circumstances leading to it."

"Oh, you do, do you?" McCoy snapped angrily, straightening up, and taking the hypo the Nurse had handed him before she stepped away again. "Well, for your information, _Commander_, I am obliged to report it and enter it into my medical log."

McCoy had only ever used his title to make a point – usually an unpleasant one – and Spock almost winced at the openly offered ultimatum. He met the physician's glance levelly.

"What is your concern, Doctor?" he asked impassively. "It is highly unlikely that you are worried about my wellbeing."

McCoy's hand almost slipped, as he positioned the hypo across Spock's chest as close to the affected area as possible, and pressed.

"What is that supposed to mean?" he asked in angry bewilderment. "Spock, what the devil is wrong with you?"

Spock regarded him warily, measuring up his reaction and trying to decipher it.

"My efficiency has not been diminished by the injury," he said cautiously. "After your treatment, it will no longer present even a potential problem. There were no negative consequences to my duties as first officer."

"So basically you're saying that I shouldn't care if you'd been in pain?" McCoy asked, scowling. "Honestly, Spock, it's too much, even coming from you."

"Why should you care? As I have pointed out, my efficiency –"

"You know what?" McCoy cut him off, his temper flaring up, like camp fire under a virulent blow of wind. "I don't. And I don't think I'd ever want to again. Stay put, I'll send M'Benga here to finish up with you."

With that, he strode out of the room as fast as he could, not trusting himself to get his anger under control. Spock watched him go, experiencing a most unsettling sensation of ever deepening confusion.

After locating M'Benga, McCoy took a moment to calm down. At times, Spock appeared so callous – it was maddening, but it was more than a simple case of cultural differences this time, the Doctor could tell. All this time, he had continuously baited Spock into showing his emotions because he knew the Vulcan had them. If he truly believed that the Vulcan was indeed as stoical as he appeared, McCoy wouldn't have bothered – what would be the point? And this behavior... this behavior was quite inexplicable.

Longing to have a second opinion, McCoy went in search of the Captain – the leading mind aboard on half-Vulcan psychology.

He found Jim in his quarters. The Captain had been studying the sections' reports, wearing a rather grumpy expression on his face.

"What can I do for you, Doctor?" he asked by means of welcome, barely glancing up at the visitor. "I was really hoping of finishing with these some time before dawn."

McCoy sat down across from him, studying him closely and resisting the temptation to run a scan over him. The Captain looked bad. Dark shadows under his eyes, his cheekbones suddenly becoming more pronounced, tension building a nest on his shoulders, - those were all signs of excessive fatigue, and the Doctor didn't need his scanner to tell him that. Damn this mission anyway, McCoy cursed mutely. Jim was in no better shape than the majority of the crew, no matter how much he wanted to appear unaffected.

"I wanted to ask you something," McCoy said, fighting the urge to massage his own neck. "About Spock."

"What about him?" Kirk asked absently, continuing to study the pad in his hands.

"Do you know that he's been injured on Baruna?" McCoy was watching him fixedly.

"By accident?" Kirk's eyes never rose from the report, his tone distinctly indifferent.

McCoy frowned.

"I don't think so. He won't tell me how it happened, but I know a battle wound when I see one. He's been in a fight."

Kirk finally looked at him, but his eyes reflected nothing of what the Doctor expected to see there. The Captain's gaze was somewhat speculative and wary, but not concerned in the slightest.

"Are you telling me this in your official capacity, Doctor?" he asked levelly. "Because in this case, you'd better file a report."

"A report?" McCoy stared at him. "Jim, don't you want to know what happened to him?"

"Doctor," Kirk signed in obvious exhaustion. "Mr. Spock is a responsible officer. If he considered this information to be of any value, he would have brought it to my attention. Since he hasn't, well... I trust him on that."

McCoy was looking at him blankly, alarm at his friend's indifference sending unpleasant strays of electricity down his spine. Was it merely fatigue that affected him so?

"How far are you willing to trust him, Jim?" he asked bemused. "He didn't tell us about that crazy cycle of his, and it nearly killed him. He didn't tell me your counterpart had... injured him, while we were in the mirror universe. He didn't tell me he was suffering from the aftereffects of the radiation treatment. Shall I go on?"

"No, but if there's a point anywhere in that babbling, feel free to jump to it anytime."

"Babbling?" McCoy repeated incensed. "Jim, are you feeling all right? It's Spock we're talking about! Your First Officer. You best friend!"

Kirk folded his arms across his chest, looking unperturbed and mildly impatient.

"And what am I supposed to do, Doctor? His health is your responsibility. He is going to be all right, isn't he?"

"Probably fine by now, even as we speak, but–"

"Then kindly attend to your duties and allow me to attend to mine. I'm serious, McCoy," he added, seeing the expression on his CMO's face. "If there's nothing else, I really need to finish this."

Still staring at him in bewilderment, McCoy rose slowly to his feet.

"No, sir," he replied in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "Nothing else."

"Good," Kirk nodded. "Dismissed."

Leaving the Captain's cabin, McCoy couldn't get rid of a highly inelegant, but very persistent question.

_What the devil __is going on here?_

He decided immediately that he'd been absent from the Bridge for too long, since most obviously he felt in a complete dissonance with both Jim and Spock. Well, at least, he thought with a demented smirk, they seemed still to be in accord with each other, for neither thought of the matter to be of any concern, showing equal amounts of impassive indifference.

"Nice job, Spock," he muttered, heading back towards Sick Bay. "Should have told me it was contagious. I would have developed a vaccine."

Never minding the passing yeoman, mildly alarmed by his muttering, McCoy vowed silently to give the situation his full attention from now on. That is, when his other duties would permit. He sighed, as if in premonition.

With the progressing amount of work in Sick Bay, in the upcoming days, he had no chance to visit the Bridge at all.

--

Montgomery Scott didn't like when people were glancing over his shoulder while he worked. Even less he liked it when they were positively glued to the spot, even if they made no observations. And when it came to making observations, or, God forbid, _suggestions_...

"I think your driver is creating additional tension in the plasma field. Maybe, you'd better recalibrate it first."

Scotty gritted his teeth. Comments like that had been bothering him for the last two hours without cessation, and by now he was on the verge of spinning around and tell the 'observer' exactly where to go and what to do with himself. Maybe with a little physical send-off it would work even better...

Ouch.

Not an option, when it was your Captain making these maddening observations.

"Sir, I _want_ the additional tension in the plasma field," he explained wearily, trying to be patient. "That's the only thing that'll show how much more the beastie can take."

"Oh," Kirk nodded readily. "I see."

Scotty doubted that, but he wasn't about to say so. He doubted anyone on the ship had an expertise to match his own, when it came down to engines. Well, granted, Mr. Spock had _some_ understanding of them. For sure he wouldn't have asked that question. But he didn't _feel_ these little darlings the way Scotty did. And they were not about to speak to the Vulcan, either, the way they did to him.

Spock was, he thought graciously with certain level of pitying tenderness, the same type as the majority of his classmates at the Academy. They learnt from books and manuals. They were overloaded with words before they had a look at the real thing. They gave quick answers to theoretical questions, but they sometimes had to spend hours trying to make heads or tails of one corporeal piece of machinery.

Scotty hadn't ever been one of those. His grades at the Academy never exceeded average level, mostly because he was never good in articulating his ideas. He was not unlike those people who saw figures in colors, allowing them to make the most complicated calculations with no effort at all, or composers who created most impressive pieces of music without any knowledge of notes.

The engines _talked_ to him. When he looked at them, he did not see a peculiar assembly of pipes, chambers, conduits and transmissions. He saw a living breathing system, not unlike a human body. He could determine with simple eye check the levels of metal's stress. He could hear the slightest variations in the density of the warp field. He was never wrong about what one particular engine could or could not do at any given time.

The Academy helped him to classify this intuitive knowledge, explained something he knew for years with laws and theories. This knowledge gave him new confidence, as he finally was able to explain his improvisations – at least, to a certain degree. His skills in this regard improved over the years so much that he actually started to put some of his ideas in writing and submitted them to the technical journals he'd been reading for ages, probably since the time he had actually learnt to read.

Mr. Spock, Scott had to grant him that, usually understood him relatively fast. He would raise his damned eyebrow and mumble something about 'unorthodox solutions,' but he trusted the Chief Engineer. Perhaps it was because Spock had had an ample amount of opportunities to observe Scott at work. Back in their early days on the _Enterprise_, when they had both been junior officers, Spock had spent quite a bit of time in Engineering, and for some reason, much to Scotty's distaste, they were paired up more times than not.

From a passing remark he heard many years later, he understood that it happened due to Spock's own efforts. It turned out he had found Scotty's working methods intriguing and worthy of closer studying. It was probably for the best, for after concluding his study, Spock had never bothered Scott hovering around and giving unasked advice. And now when the Vulcan turned up in Engineering during an occasional crisis, Scotty was only grateful for the qualified help, for he knew that his own opinion of the desirable course of action would not be challenged.

Kirk was another matter. The Captain's spontaneous knowledge surprised him at times, but mainly it alarmed him, because in Scotty's view it gave Kirk the casual confidence about the engines he had no business of having. Apparently, the Captain occasionally read the same technical journals Scotty did, studying new technological advances aptly. But where Scotty's keenness for new knowledge was balanced with years of practical experience, Kirk was at times eager to jump on any unproven means if it held even the vaguest hope of saving the ship.

Sometimes it did. The _Enterprise_ was the first ship to successfully implement the cold matter-antimatter intermix formula, but Scott still shuddered at the memory. What bugged him most, however, was that Kirk's strokes of 'divine insight,' which usually scared the hell out of his Chief Engineer, mainly came during a major crisis, and at times like that Kirk wasn't in the habit of being in a mood to listen to reason. Scotty knew exceedingly well from experience that during such moments he could easily at any instant be commanded to implement some utterly crazy solution, and it was left entirely up to him and his ingenuity to hold the ship together.

At certain times he thought about the Captain with the same level of fatalistic apprehension, as if Kirk were a particularly powerful explosive device that could go off at any time with no off switch and no warning.

It was not, however, his usual routine to haunt Engineering in the middle of the night, driving Scotty positively mad with intrusions. Not that he didn't like his Captain... He liked him fine, he respected him and even admired to some degree. But he didn't like _anyone_ to interfere with his job. It was the third time this week when that had happened, and the Scotsman's patience was running dangerously thin.

"Well then," Kirk studied the indicators on the panel intently. "Is our plasma core in good shape?"

"I would say so, sir," Scotty mumbled, trying to concentrate on his immediate task. "I'm just... making sure of that."

"Don't you want to check the polarity controls? They seem to be somewhat slow."

Scotty groaned.

"What was that, Mr. Scott?" Kirk asked politely as if he couldn't hear his answer.

"Nothing, sir. Sure I'll check those controls."

"You don't want to check them now?"

That was it.

Emerging from the Jeffries tube in a hasty and consequently stripped of any grace motion, Scott straightened up, facing his Captain with an expression that did not look promising.

"Captain, begging yer pardon, but dinna ye have anything better to do?" he demanded, barely capable of giving the question at least a hint of respect towards the senior officer. "I'll give ye a full report when I'm done here, and I can do it without... without..." he struggled for words, and Kirk finally helped him.

"Without me hanging around nagging you?" he asked with a small smile.

"Well... aye, sir. It's kinda distracting."

Kirk sighed.

"I know, I'm sorry, Scotty. Couldn't help it. I wanted to make sure she's ready through and through," he looked around, as if gathering the entire ship with his eyes.

"Ready for what, Captain?" the Engineer frowned, watching him warily.

"Nothing. The next mission," Kirk said quickly, his gaze dropping down for a moment.

"We're ready, sir," Scotty shrugged uncomfortably. It was clear to him that something was bothering Kirk, but he had no idea what to do with that knowledge. "As ready as ye can get."

"Yes, I suppose," Kirk intoned quietly, staring unseeingly at the screen. "As ready as you can get," he muttered. Then, as if snapping out of it, he met his officer's eyes and grinned wryly. "You're doing just fine, Scotty," he said, placing an approving hand on the Engineer's shoulder. "I'll stay out of your hair, I promise. But I'll be waiting for that report."

"Of course, sir," Scotty nodded, bewildered and hopeful that he would finally be left alone. "First thing in the morning."

"I'm looking forward to it, Mr. Scott," Kirk said halfway towards the doors. "Carry on."

"Aye," Scotty watched him go, puzzled expression creeping into his eyes.

At last, he shook his head, trying to get rid of the growing confusion, and turned back to the errand he had started before Kirk appeared in Engineering, hoping that the Captain would stay true to his word.

--

The week that had passed since the incident in Sick Bay along with the new landing mission to the second planet on their list, brought the peculiar behavior of his two commanding officers completely out of McCoy's mind. One day before the third landing, the Doctor was feeling mildly cheerful, as if having discovered a new source of energy. The truth was he simply had adapted to new routines, unpleasant as they were, and they did not have such an impact on him anymore.

He had not seen much of either Jim or Spock in the last few days, but when he did observe them together, nothing caught his eye as distinctly unusual. He was almost about to completely dismiss the matter and even 'forgive' Spock for his bizarre attitude in Sick Bay, and was looking forward to spend some time with both of them.

It was around midday, and the officers' mess was crowded with people having lunch. McCoy was sitting in the corner, a steaming bowl of soup in front of him, and was gazing lamely around the room. He had a busy morning that threatened to evolve into an even more busy day, and was grateful for a break. It was also the customary hour when Jim would appear here, too.

The doors opened again, and McCoy's head snapped up hopefully. Spock walked in, but surprisingly he was alone. He carried a pad and looked somehow even more reserved than usual. The Doctor happened to know that the Vulcan had been working in the labs that morning, and he knew Jim and Spock nearly always took their lunch together when their duties separated them during the A-shift. It was a well-established routine, disrupted only by an occasional emergency. But then again, imagining an emergency which would not require Spock's presence on the Bridge was equally impossible.

While McCoy was contemplating all this, consequently failing to call the First Officer's attention to him in time, Spock had passed to the replicators without seeing him. Despite the fact that he was studying his pad closely, he appeared somewhat distracted, and almost collided with the replicator stand. A couple of younger crewmen, sitting to McCoy's left, giggled at the sight, and the Doctor smiled too, but mostly automatically. Spock definitely wasn't one of those people, who didn't know what to do with their hands, and whose awkwardness made them knock off the furniture. McCoy doubted very much that he had ever had this problem, not even as a teenager.

Yet now he watched, with growing surprise, the amusing, but disturbing sight of Spock, who couldn't identify the correct chip for food order at once, and then made a double take to insert it into the slot. The Doctor frowned, his smile wearing thin. This didn't look like Spock at all.

"Commander!" a voice called to the Vulcan, as he removed the tray from the pad. "Would you like to join us?"

It was Renseb, the same young ensign on Spock's staff, who had scared the hell out of McCoy when he met him during his tour of the lower decks some weeks ago. As usual, the blue-shirts had a table for themselves, with just one vacant seat at it. Lieutenant Quaint was sitting to Renseb's right, and beside her, Tanna, another junior officer. McCoy liked Tanna and Renseb fine. They were very young, very enthusiastic and curious, almost the perfect image of Earth's youth as it should be.

Watching their anxious expressions, McCoy grinned. Somehow, those two had a hold of Spock, which was quite unique. He was pedantically strict as head of department, but wary of this as they were, they had soon discovered that his encyclopedic knowledge was at their disposal, whenever the Commander had the time, and he was a patient and considerate mentor. Encouraged by Renseb and Tanna's example, the rest of the scientific staff began to take more liberty with their commanding officer, and Spock was still openly receptive. At Lieutenant Quaint's suggestion, once a week, the Science Section dined together, discussing all sorts of subjects, not strictly connected with their duties. It was during those informal gatherings that Spock told them a lot about the missions he had participated in, in the past, or enlightened them on various new studies that he had come across, or simply baited his staff to discuss some philosophical problem, acting as a moderator.

Those gatherings, naturally, attracted a lot of attention from the rest of the crew, and anyone was welcome to join, though not that many people were ready to keep up. The senior officers sometimes joined the conversation. In fact, McCoy could recall Kirk's heated discussion with Scotty about the future of warp drive just about a month ago, Kirk and Spock's elegant debate on the Prime Directive's justification, which was a reoccurring subject, and his own impassioned argument with Spock on a variety of topics on more than one occasion.

He could see the gleam of anticipation in Renseb's eye now, as he invited Spock to join them. Spock, however, hesitated, and only moved towards their table when he saw no other option. He sat down opposite Quaint, and his eyes bored into hers immediately. She flushed under his scrutiny, then, nodded slightly. McCoy thought he knew what that all was about. Ever since he had confirmed her suspicions about her condition, whenever he saw them together, he had observed the same careful silent inquiry from Spock, and the same mute reassuring response. The Doctor hadn't actually discussed Quaint's situation with the Vulcan, but he was fairly certain Spock knew exactly what was transpiring, along with the rest of the crew.

McCoy always wondered at this special relationship. Unlike the Captain, he knew full well about their 'relation' from day one, but it didn't quite explain everything. He was fairly certain that the Vulcan had indeed been looking out for her as he would for a sister, though one had to look hard to see it, as he was notorious for discretion. As for Quaint... Knowing the truth, McCoy had never given much thought to the rumors circulating on board, but recently he thought he might have been mistaken.

Renseb and Tanna resumed their chatter about space anomalies, every now and then glancing at Spock, clearly hoping he'd join the conversation. But Spock showed no interest for it, and there was no way of knowing if he was even listening. It certainly didn't look that way. Hoping to attract his attention, Renseb changed the subject to Federation-Klingon relations, debating the shaky arrangement established by the Organian treaty, but the Science Officer was no more willing to discuss that topic than the previous one. Finally, two younger officers finished their meal and left, looking mildly perplexed.

By that time, most people had finished their lunch, too, and the room went considerably quieter, creating a perfect opportunity for the Doctor to eavesdrop. He didn't plan on it, but Spock's uncharacteristic behavior, along with Jim's absence, made him change his mind. He didn't like it, but Spock didn't leave him a lot of choice, did he? McCoy knew perfectly well from experience that confronting the Vulcan with a direct question would be to no avail.

"Spock," Quaint started tentatively. "Has anything happened?"

He looked up at her, eyes carefully veiled. "I am unsure to the area of your inquiry."

"You seem preoccupied lately," she shrugged, watching him closely. "I have only seen you like this several times."

He was silent for a long time, and McCoy started to fear he wouldn't answer. But, either the strain was finally getting to him, or was it for the fact that she was leaving soon, Spock finally decided to speak.

"It has recently been brought to my attention that I am farther from understanding human nature than I used to believe. I am currently reevaluating a number of relationships I have formed aboard this ship."

"Oh," she breathed out, surprised and confused. "How so?"

He gazed upon her pensively. "Do you recall the events of that month I had spent at your mother's house nine years ago? Specifically, the night when your fiancé had dined with us?"

She blushed furiously, dropping her eyes for a moment.

"When he told you that you were... that you..."

"That I did not belong there, no matter how hard you and your mother tried to make me think otherwise."

"Spock, I'm sorry, he was just a jealous jerk. You know it wasn't true."

"I did not remind you of this to make you apologize," he shook his head. "Only to illustrate my current predicament. For a long time, I have believed that the appreciation of my presence here is not restricted to my professional capacity only. But apparently, I have misjudged the situation again."

"What are you talking about?" she asked bewildered and alarmed. "Did someone tell you, you are not welcome?"

"Not precisely," Spock replied evasively. "I am a valuable officer."

"I would really like to see the person who can debate _that_," she smiled. "But you are also a wonderful friend, Spock."

The Vulcan frowned, his face growing dark. "Not according to my source. I never understood emotion, any emotion is alien to me. However, for some time now, I admit I have harbored certain feelings, which have no logical ground. Apparently, I cannot process them correctly. I cannot be a good friend."

Instinctively, she reached out across the table and squeezed his hand. "You have always been an invaluable friend for me, Spock. I can't – can't quite tell you how you make me feel, but if it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't even be here. I owe you so much..."

"You owe me nothing, Lieutenant," he shook his head, pulling his hand away. "And your judgment is not impartial, due to... our connection," he got up to his feet. "Forgive me, I should not have troubled you with my problems. It is hardly responsible of me."

"Spock," she called after him, her eyes glistened suspiciously with tears, which she quickly blinked away. "I was honored."

He stopped for a moment, then, continued on his way without looking back.

McCoy left shortly afterwards, deeply concerned with what he had heard. Unlike Quaint, his judgment wasn't clouded by his feelings towards Spock, and he could make a clearer view of the situation.

First of all, there were not that many people aboard who were capable of rendering the Vulcan that degree of self-doubt. He knew that for best or for worst he was one of them. The other was Jim Kirk. And as the Doctor was fairly certain that he himself had made no comment to Spock regarding his ability to feel friendship recently, there was only one conclusion to be made. The conclusion that was confirmed surreptitiously by Jim's absence and the strange conversation the Doctor had had with him.

It was clear to McCoy that the Vulcan was troubled deeply, and that a usual amount of human teasing could not be responsible for that. 'Dammit, Jim,' he thought darkly, 'what on earth did you tell him? And why on earth am I this bothered by it?'

Of course, it was his duty to make sure that the command team was working at its top efficiency... He grimaced at himself. What was he doing trying to rationalize his concern with 'official Starfleet business?' He always detested it when Spock was doing that.

'I am a valuable officer,' Spock had said.

Yes, it did sound like something Jim might have said. But that obviously was only a small part of whatever had transpired between them. McCoy shook his head, aiming for some clarity of thought. If he were to help those two very stubborn people to make it right between them, he absolutely needed it.


	10. The Lightning Strikes

**Chapter 9**

**The Lightning Strikes**

"And if I make it stand?"

"Then I shall relieve you of duty under Starfleet regulation Seven, article Twelve – proven conscious and intentional endangering of the ship and crew."

If Doctor McCoy could be any judge, it was one highly unpleasant and unproductive pre-mission briefing, but never did he think it would result in such a statement on Spock's part. He stared at the Vulcan along with everyone else, trying to get rid of a muffled buzzing attacking his ears. The sound of stunned silence, no doubt.

Granted, the skies were cloudy from the beginning, but nothing promised an actual thunderstorm. He searched his memory a short while back, trying to pinpoint the moment when they had gone so utterly off track.

The first fifteen minutes seemed to be all right. The Briefing Room was crowded, with all the department heads and section chiefs gathered in there for the final correction of plans. Spock had just finished outlining for them the locations of the settlements on Maupak, the third world on their itinerary.

"As they are relatively close to one another, it is reasonable for us to set up one coordinating center in the middle of that triangle," he showed it on the map. "Thus, we can render assistance, spending minimal time for establishing logistics."

"Plus," Giotto interjected, "it's safer for our own people."

"Your opinion, Mr. Scott?" Kirk prompted him, causing several people to look at him in surprise. Spock, McCoy noted grimly, was not one of them, as if he was already used to having his well thought-out suggestions questioned.

"Aye, it's easier for my lads, too," the Engineer shrugged, indicating his puzzlement at having to state the self-evident point.

"Well, Mr. Spock," Kirk smiled lightly, his hazel eyes remaining unaffected. "It seems you have a quorum."

The Vulcan simply nodded, his face devoid of any expression.

"Doctor," Kirk turned to look at him. "Your status?"

"We're ready, Captain," McCoy replied, with a dismissive shrug. "One field station, supervised by me and M'Benga."

"One station, Doctor?" Kirk frowned at him. "There are over two thousand people there. Don't you think you'd better set up at least two?"

"Jim, we are spreading pretty thin as it is," McCoy grunted unhappily. "We're not a crisis relief ship. I don't have enough qualified medical personnel to man two independent stations."

"You mean you don't have enough personnel to watch over it while you wander around doing sightseeing, as is your new habit?" Kirk asked, a smile still present on his lips, but his voice turning unpleasantly sharp. "Is that why you refuse to open another station?"

Fuming, the Doctor opened his mouth, but, before he could speak, Spock intervened.

"Captain, Doctor McCoy was only leaving the hospital because it was not possible to deliver all those requiring medical attention to him."

"Yes, Mr. Spock, your inefficiency is getting more pronounced by the day. However–"

"My staff is going to be working around the clock, Jim," McCoy interjected in a distinctly insulted voice. "Just as they have been on Korrias. And if I'm gonna make any house calls – it won't be for idle wandering."

"I believe you are well suited to open two stations," Kirk insisted. "It's inhuman to make those people line up for the better part of the day. Don't you think they've suffered enough?"

"Captain, we do not have qualified medical personnel in abundance," Spock stated firmly, indicating with his tone that he was not about to surrender a bit of ground. "Doctor McCoy is absolutely correct."

McCoy stared at him, despite his preoccupation. "Why, thank you, Spock. I never thought I'd see the day."

The Vulcan ignored him, his attention focused on the Captain.

"I am also forced to point out that establishing two medical stations means putting the crew of the _Enterprise_ at a considerable risk should we lose either one. It will also mean our inability to continue with our mission."

Kirk frowned deeper than ever, but it was clear he had no choice but to give in.

"Very well, Mr. Spock, Doctor," he said. "Have it your way."

McCoy was watching him bemused. It was not uncommon recently that Kirk would exceed any bounds of reason in his demands, whether they touched upon the mission or ship's business, chasing some wild ideas of his. He tried to persuade Giotto to put his men on four-shift schedule. He attempted to convince Scotty to run tests on the warp plasma core while still at warp in vague hopes of increasing efficiency. Without consulting McCoy, he totally changed the duty shifts roster. There had been other incidents.

In each case, no respective department head, McCoy included, was able to make him change his mind. They had all finally appealed to the Executive Officer to intervene, and only when Spock confronted the Captain on each occasion, proving to him in the coldest logical terms he could summon that his suggestion was unviable, if not downright dangerous, only after yet another heated discussion with his First Officer did Kirk back off on his demands.

It was almost as if he was continuously testing Spock, McCoy mused warily. As if with his outrageous suggestions, he was provoking the Vulcan, usually very supportive of his decisions, to stand up to him. The same thing happened now, McCoy realized grimly. He was distinctly aware that he and his team were an inch away from being split in two, despite any counter arguments, and God only knows what would have happened then. Only when Spock made it clear that such action would jeopardize the ship and its mission did Kirk back off. What was going on here?

He concentrated on Kirk's voice again.

"I will be negotiating with the authorities this time," the Captain was saying. "Mr. Spock, you're in charge of the landing mission, try not to screw up as much as the last time. Mr. Scott, your expertise will be needed down there, too, if I understand their demands correctly."

"Ye want me down on the planet, Captain?" Scott asked perplexed. "But who will be in command?"

Kirk glanced at Uhura and smiled the shadow of his tantalizing smile.

"Lieutenant, do you feel up to it?"

"Sir..." she looked positively alarmed. "I do not think it's–"

"You know, I'm tired," Kirk cut her off with a mean gleam in his eye, "of having my orders constantly challenged. Lieutenant Uhura, you _will_ assume command of the _Enterprise_, while we're down there. That's an order and I don't want to hear any further objections," his eyes fixed on his second-in-command warningly. "From anyone."

But that was insane, McCoy thought desperately. With Spock, Scotty, Sulu, Quaint, Giotto and even Chekov down on the surface, not to mention Kirk himself, the ship would be unbelievably vulnerable to any sudden attack – and they were in the Neutral Zone, for heaven's sake! The look upon Kirk's face was determined, there was clearly no point in arguing with him. Instinctively, McCoy turned his eyes to Spock, and he wasn't the only one.

Scotty's glance reflected the same desperate anxiety, Uhura's face was ghostly pale and horrified, Sulu looked distinctly alarmed, Giotto frowned darkly, allowing himself for once to demonstrate his disapproval of his commanding officer's decision. All gazes seemed to lock on Spock; the tension was almost palpable.

"Captain, Lieutenant Uhura had never been in command during a combat situation," Spock said in a cool soft voice, as if testing the waters.

"We will not be leaving her in one."

Spock frowned mildly.

"No, but we will be leaving her in the situation which could rapidly _turn_ into one. We are in the middle of the Neutral Zone, and our sensors had picked up several Klingon ships in the vicinity."

"Don't you trust our partners-in-peace, Mr. Spock?"

"Do you, Captain?"

"To a point. They have not attacked us earlier."

"They have not been present earlier. Captain, there are currently twenty seven encounters with the Klingons logged in the _Enterprise's_ records. There is not a single one of those that had not resulted in an armed conflict of various degree of hostility. With or without the treaty in place. It is illogical to assume that the nature of any further encounter will change, particularly not under current circumstances, when our presence here can be interpreted as a threat."

"Are you saying we should sit on our tail because of some statistical probability?"

"I am saying that it is unreasonable to leave Lieutenant Uhura in command, sir."

Kirk looked at Uhura encouragingly.

"Lieutenant, don't you have a say in this? Mr. Spock here seems to underestimate your command abilities. But you and I both know different."

He smiled at her in a way that made McCoy's jaw drop, Scotty and Sulu frown, Giotto raise his eyebrows, and Uhura herself blush.

"Captain, I don't... I..."

Embarrassment, anger and confusion prevented her from formulating an articulate response.

"Captain, Lieutenant Uhura's abilities are well known to me," Spock stated calmly, sparing her a brief glance. "I submit, however, that she is not an officer of command grade. According to Starfleet regulation Seven, article Two, in a dangerous or uncertain situation, such as ours, it is not allowed for all the officers of command rank to leave the ship simultaneously."

Kirk surveyed him scornfully.

"Can you say nothing other than quote regulations?"

Spock's eyebrow creased, a definite sign of his anger. The next thing out of his mouth was something McCoy had never expected to hear him say to Kirk. Obviously Vulcans were not indestructible, and Spock's patience and reserve were finally giving under the strain.

"It is my duty as First Officer to remind the Captain of certain things, should he appear to have forgotten them. If you wish to hear my personal opinion, very well. Your order is unreasonable, irresponsible and unjustifiable. Sir."

A collective intake of breath was a clear indicator of the harshness that infiltrated his tone. Never had any of them heard him speak to the Captain like this. Never had any of them even _imagined_ that Spock could speak to Kirk like this.

Kirk looked him squarely in the eye, unabashed.

"And if I make it stand?"

All heads turned to Spock again, as if they were watching a particularly compelling tennis match.

"Then I shall relieve you of duty under Starfleet regulation Seven, article Twelve – proven conscious and intentional endangering of the ship and crew."

The ensuing silence was deafening. No one was able to move, they were hardly even breathing. McCoy felt he was sliding into some sort of daze, the surrealistic events making his head spin. Was it possible that he was still dreaming in his cabin, not having gotten out of bed yet?

Kirk leaned back in his chair, his pose almost relaxed, but his face dark and stricken.

"Do you realize what you are saying, Commander?"

"Affirmative. My primary duty is the same as yours – to the ship. And I will not allow you to put it in jeopardy without sufficient grounds."

"Indeed? Mr. Spock, you're one tiny little inch away from outright mutiny, but there seem to be a hell lot of things you don't know about running a starship. It's run on loyalty, Commander Spock of Vulcan. Do you honestly believe that my officers will support you against me?"

"This is not about you and me, Captain," Spock countered evenly. "This is about the safety of this ship and the success of its mission."

"And you're arrogant enough to believe that you know better how we should proceed? I got to tell you, Spock, your self-assurance really is something."

"Jim! Spock! For heaven's sake!" McCoy exclaimed, unable to remain silent for one second longer. "Have you both lost your minds? What the devil are you doing?!"

"It appears that we're trying to determine whose orders the crew will follow," Kirk told him calmly, his eyes narrowed and never leaving Spock's. "What about you, Doctor? If Mr. Spock and I send our little difference of opinions in motion, whom will you support?"

"Jim!" McCoy stared at him, incensed. "Listen to what you're saying!"

"I asked you a question, McCoy."

"There is little point in answering hypothetical questions, Captain," Spock said quickly before McCoy could overcome an upsurge of pure fury.

"On the contrary, there's no better way of finding out how far this corrupted notion of yours goes. Your opinion, Mr. Scott?" Kirk rounded on the Chief Engineer suddenly.

"Sir..." Scotty looked no less dazed than the rest of them, alarmed at being forced to choose sides that in his view could never get split in the first place. Yet now they were. He would always choose man's word over some dusty regulations, invented by a bunch of bureaucrats, but what the Captain was suggesting seemed insecure to the extreme. "I think it would be better for me to stay with the ship, Captain," he said looking down at his clasped hands miserably. "Just to be on the safe side."

Kirk's eyes glinted malevolently, as he turned to Sulu. The helmsman squirmed visibly under his intent gaze, and shot a brief glance at Spock, as if trying to weigh his options. The Vulcan was watching the Captain continuously, seemingly indifferent to what his fellow officers might say.

"Captain, I will obey your orders." Sulu said tersely. "But it doesn't seem right to be leaving only Uhura here, while the Klingons are nearby."

"Noted. Lieutenant?"

Uhura was trembling, probably without realizing it.

"If you order me to take command, I will, Captain," she managed, her voice barely audible. "And if the Klingons should attack..." her words trailed off, and she couldn't finish the sentence.

"Ms. Quaint, you'll forgive me for not asking you, but I think we all know exactly where your loyalty lies and why. Though, if you ask me, you're wasting your time there."

Quaint blushed so intensely, she was practically radiating heat. Spock's hands gathered into fists instinctively, before the Vulcan registered his reaction and willed them back to lie flat. McCoy thought he couldn't blame him. At that moment, he was more than eager to give Jim a thorough shake himself.

"Commander?"

Giotto stiffened even more than he already was. But there appeared to be no hesitation in his answer, which made a distinctive difference from the others.

"Captain, speaking strictly in security terms, Commander Spock is correct. Either you, he, or Lieutenant Commander Scott should remain on board at any given time while we are in the Neutral Zone."

The glint in Kirk's eyes intensified, and suddenly McCoy realized that it was not anger that it reflected. If anything, the expression remarkably resembled satisfaction. He didn't have the time to dwell on it, however, because Kirk rounded back on him, his gaze boring into McCoy's face.

"Made up your mind yet, Doctor?"

"Oh, yes, I did, Captain, sir," his anger snapped for him. "I don't know what you're playing at, but this absurd charade will stop now, or I'm ordering you both down for psyche exam."

"On what grounds, Doctor?" Spock asked him calmly, looking away from Kirk for the first time. "I do not believe that my behavior has given you sufficient cause for such a measure."

"Spock, I don't believe you!" McCoy exploded, facing him squarely. "You have just threatened to remove Captain Kirk from command! Or don't you remember?"

"My memory serves me fine. But I did not threaten anyone. I outlined my consequent actions should Captain Kirk make his order stand – because he asked me to. Do you find that my supposed actions would signal my mental incapacity?"

"Well, no, I don't," McCoy waved the question off as unimportant, missing completely the triumphant spark kindling in Kirk's eye for a split second. "But what you're doing here is... is..."

"Doctor, we are doing nothing here, except exploring a hypothetical problem," Kirk intoned with a small smile. His gaze drifted over to his First Officer. "Isn't it right, Mr. Spock?"

For a long moment, the Vulcan simply looked at him, as if calculating something. Finally, he shifted, his pose going slightly more relaxed.

"Affirmative."

A general sigh of relief ran throughout the crowded room like a wave. It was all a game, then. Nothing serious.

"Very well, gentlemen," Kirk snapped his hands appreciatively. "So much for the fun part. Mr. Spock, you will be in charge of the landing party operation. Mr. Scott stays in command of the _Enterprise_."

"Aye, sir."

"If there are no more questions?" Kirk looked at Spock. The Vulcan shook his head. "Well, then, let's get this show on the road. Dismissed."

In a blink of an eye, the room was filled with general commotion. People were going in and out, dividing in groups of twos and threes, talking on their way. McCoy saw Quaint leaving among the first, almost on the run, her face still flushed, her eyes wide. Uhura was laughing nervously, her knees obviously shaky, she leaned into Sulu, who supported her shoulders gently, speaking to her in a reassuring voice, as they walked out. Scotty was giving instructions to Mandy, who stood behind his back throughout the meeting with a couple of her assistants, and who now was to be the ranking engineering officer in the landing party. Spock was surrounded by his own staff, listening to the updates on which he was not briefed before the meeting, Renseb and Tanna close at his elbow, looking at him with concern. And Kirk...

Kirk, McCoy realized suddenly, was still keeping his place, sitting there alone and watching his second-in-command across the room. A smile was playing on his lips, a familiar, easy smile, with which Kirk favored his friend so often. It was half admiring, half disappointed, and it usually appeared when Kirk tried to find a problem, to which Spock wouldn't be able to find a solution, only he always did. The smile was dual, ambivalent, as if Kirk was both proud of the Vulcan's abilities, and upset that he'd lost to his unbeatable First Officer again.

Rising from his seat, McCoy walked over to him, almost lazily, though his muscles were stiff, as if he had been subjected to higher gravity for a while.

"Jim, can I talk to you for a second?"

Kirk's smile faded, as if washed out by a jet of icy water. He looked up at the Doctor speculatively.

"You're not really asking, are you?"

"No," McCoy admitted. "I'm not."

Kirk sighed, but got up to his feet obediently and followed his CMO out of the room. They walked in silence, until they finally reached the calm privacy of the Captain's quarters.

"Want some brandy?" Kirk asked, reaching for a glass.

"No, Captain."

"Ah," his hand dropped, and he turned to survey the Doctor carefully. "So this is official."

McCoy frowned.

"To be honest, I don't know, Jim. I don't know whether to make it official or not. I don't know what to make of your behavior, either. One moment you're biting people's heads off, the next you laugh at their stunned faces and tell them it was only a joke."

"That got you just now, didn't it?"

"Yes, it did," McCoy said indignantly. "What the devil are you doing playing tricks like that with your staff? Did you see how many people were in that room? The whole ship is one buzzing hive right now, and I don't think they've appreciated the show."

"Your point being, Doctor?" Kirk asked, somewhat tiredly.

"If you and Spock are in the mood for some mind games – do it in private!" McCoy snapped. "Since when is seeing the Captain and the First Officer at each other's throats good for ship's moral? And don't you dare play ignorance, you've been provoking him all week for some twisted purpose!"

"I most certainly have not," Kirk retorted adamantly. "Spock has taken an annoying habit of disagreeing with my every order, I needed to put him back in his place."

"By openly challenging him in front of the crew?" McCoy asked incensed. "Jim, what are we now – some blasted privateer ship? What do you plan to have him do next - walk the plank?"

"There could be only one captain aboard a starship at any given time," Kirk stated firmly. "Spock seems to have forgotten that."

"Jim, Spock would never question your authority."

"Haven't you been paying attention, Bones? He just did."

"You pushed him into it!"

"So what? If you stand in the way, you'd better be prepared to be pushed. He's given me no room to breathe lately, always lurking around, sticking his nose into matters which are none of his business."

"Jim!"

"What? Don't look at me like that, I'm not the one with the problem. I'm tired sick of his attitude, Bones. Why does he always have to act as if he knows better than the rest of us?"

"Because, disconcerting as it is, he usually does!"

"My-my, Doctor," Kirk shook his head in exasperation. "Don't let him hear you say that."

McCoy took a deep breath in a futile attempt to steel his temper.

"Look, Jim, I don't know what ill wind had blown between the two of you lately, but you can't take it out on the crew. Especially not in the middle of a mission in the Klingon Neutral Zone. I can't believe I have to tell you this!"

"What makes you think you do?"

"Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor! You think I don't know how they'd react? Making them choose between you and Spock, honestly! People's nerves are already white-hot, the last thing they need is watching you berate Spock in public because he happens to be right and you don't!"

"I can see I don't have to guess where _your_ loyalties are anymore," Kirk noted, with the same air of grave satisfaction the McCoy had observed earlier. "All right, Doctor, you've made your point. I'll be good, as long as Spock stops giving me grief every time I make a decision. Now, if there's nothing else, I believe you have a medical station to organize. We'll be in orbit in nine hours."

It was all McCoy could do when he was leaving the Captain's quarters not to curse out loud.

"It's hard to believe we even need any enemies to come and get us," he muttered to the empty cabin of the turbolift. "We seem to be doing fine all by ourselves."


	11. General Order 12

**A/N:** It is darkest before the dawn. We're barely reaching Mittelspiel.

**Chapter 10**

**General Order 1****2**

I don't believe my own eyes.

Despite his many years among humans, Spock still found the expression wanting. It made no sense to him. Eyes were merely instruments of gathering visual information of one's surroundings. How the objective output of this process could be subject to emotional 'belief' or 'disbelief' was beyond his comprehension. And yet now, logical or not, he was wishing desperately he could disregard what his eyes were telling him.

For ten feet in front of him and slightly to his left, Captain Kirk had just passed a data chip to a Klingon.

He was smarter this time. It occurred to him that the disaster on Baruna was only too logical, even more so, it was inevitable. He was so convinced that the Admiral was wrong in his suspicions that he didn't take the assignment seriously. Walking through the city so that everyone could see him scanning his environs was stupid and irresponsible. He realized he was negligent in his duties, for, regardless of what he might have personally thought of the order and its premises, it was his obligation to fulfill it to the best of his abilities. And his abilities, Spock admitted grimly, were a lot better than that.

It was easier here, too, for Maupak only had two establishments of suitable sort, not an entire quarter. Apparently, the price for alcohol beverages and other services was higher here, than the majority of population could afford.

With Kirk negotiating with Maupak officials himself, Spock had efficiently organized the coordination center and lost no time in delegating his authority for immediate decisions to Quaint. He was aware that he was putting additional strain on Jessica and regretted it, but saw no other choice. She seemed eager for the task, though after the pre-mission meeting in the Briefing Room, she had trouble meeting his eyes most of the time.

The recollection of his own behavior made him cringe inwardly still, despite the obvious emotionalism of that reaction. His conduct was inexcusable. He was the First Officer, his role by definition was to see to the smooth execution of the Captain's orders. He should never even hint in public that the Captain might be in the wrong, but always present a united front with him, and whatever reservations he might have had, they should have been given in private.

There was nothing private at all about that meeting, yet he seemed unable to refrain from objections. What Kirk had suggested was far beyond any reason, and Spock received a distinct impression that it wasn't an idle challenge, that the Captain would really have given that order if not confronted. Kirk appeared almost casual and at ease back tracking on his demand, but Spock knew him well enough to see that under the surface he was furious.

For the first time, a flicker of a doubt raced through his mind then. Kirk was usually obsessed with the safety of the ship, making decision to compromise it only when millions of lives were at stake. Yet now he was insistent on leaving it totally unprotected, when the situation did not warrant it at all.

Spock tried to push the thought back, to disregard it, but his analytical mind was already weighing possibilities and options. His emotions, drifting so close to surface these days, screamed in agony, telling him that even by thinking what he was, he was betraying his friend.

But how could he not think? The closeness that he used to share with Jim had been gone for weeks now. Spock could no longer be certain of his mood or feelings regarding anything. He was set back; along with the rest of the crew, he could only gather information from what the Captain chose to display. But, unlike the rest of the crew, he did not possess the necessary level of familiarity with human emotions and reactions to dare draw conclusions. Especially not after he discovered that he had been so completely wrong in his view of his relationship with Jim.

'I need your clear Vulcan head on this,' Lewton had told him. Without access to Captain's personal space, it was all that was left to Spock – watch and analyze, with cold detachment of logic and reason. It looked like the Admiral was getting his wish, after all.

Captain Kirk had continuously tried to disrupt the normal routine of the ship, offering explanations so wild – they could not possibly be taken into account. The intention to leave the ship in orbit without one single officer with required experience was not backed up at all, even by some highly far-fetched reasons. However, an explanation did arrive, though not delivered by the Captain.

Spock frowned as he remembered Scott's urgent call and his alarming report that the ship was under attack. Scotty tried to apprise the Captain of the situation immediately, but the call placed to him couldn't reach him and was redirected to Spock instead.

'_Can you beam me up, Mr. Scott?' Spock had asked__ at once, a sharp edge in his voice giving away his anxiety. _

'_Not a chance, sir, they're all over us.'_

'_How many? Type of vessel?'_

'_Two scout ships, Mr. Spock, one light cruiser,' the sound of a loud blast cut his voice off for an instant. Several seconds passed, until the Engineer's voice could be heard again, Scotty was snapping orders frantically. '... ten degrees and dive for it.'_

'_Phasers ready and locked on target, Mr. Scott,' it was Uhura. _

'_Fire, lass!' The sound of another blast, then: 'Engineering! Whoever's on duty, I need those shields operational!'_

'_Aft shields failing, captain!'_

'_Helm, bring us about – now!'_

_Another blast could be heard through the open communication link, and then it was all gone, the com went dead. Mechanically, Spock closed his communicator and glanced up at Sulu and Quaint, who came over as soon as they heard Scott's call. The same grave expressions were present on all three faces, no one seemed to require any explanations. _

'_What do we do now, sir?' Sulu asked grimly. _

_Spock looked at Quaint. 'Lieutenant, try to raise the Captain.'_

'_Aye, sir.'_

_As she rushed away, Spock turned to Sulu. 'Unfortunately, Lieutenant, I can think of nothing we could do at the moment, except wait.'_

_Easier said than done. They waited for twenty two point four minutes until Quaint had returned – she wasn't able to locate the Captain. They waited on for another nineteen point eight minutes before Spock's communicator finally beeped. _

'_We're clear, Mr. Spock!' Scott reported, his voice rasp, words quick with adrenaline. 'We've destroyed one scout ship, the others have retreated.'_

'_Casualties?' Spock asked briskly, ignoring his human colleagues embracing each other in relief. _

'_None serious, sir. Lads are wee bit shaken, is all.'_

'_Ship's status?'_

'_We're down to warp one,' Scotty sighed miserably. 'We've over-exhausted the engines trying to maintain shields.'_

'_Estimated time of repairs?'_

_There was another distinctive sigh. 'Three to four days, sir. Depends on how fast I can get down there.'_

'_Mr. Sulu will relieve you on the Bridge shortly. Spock out.'_

_Sulu looked slightly surprised. He had assumed Spock would be beaming up himself. _

'_Mr. Sulu, you're in command until further notice,' Spock said. 'Beam up immediately. I shall try to locate Captain Kirk. Make full sensor sweep of the area every ten minutes. Report to me the moment you detect anything out of the ordinary.'_

'_Aye, sir.'_

That was it. After Sulu had beamed up to the ship, Spock asked Quaint to take charge of the landing operation and went in search of the Captain. He did not check with the Maupak officials the way Jessica had tried to do, and instead took a detour during which he had completely changed his outfit and which brought him in the end to the two local drinking establishments. The choice was relatively easy, as one of them had a shiny advertisement on the entrance wall, describing unique talents of the showgirls. One glance at the overly lit lounge made Spock retreat into the second bar, dark almost to the point of murkiness.

There he sat and waited, having chosen his position carefully. He didn't have to wait long. Kirk entered shortly after Spock's order was served. The Captain was also out of uniform, resembling anything but a man in search of some recreation or companionship. He was determined and grim, and Spock wondered briefly, his heart beginning to pound, if Kirk even knew of the attack on the ship.

The Captain glanced around, looking for someone, then strode forward purposefully ending up at a table, occupied by a skinny Klingon with fleeing eyes.

'There has to be a way out of this,' Spock thought desperately. 'This cannot be happening.'

He wanted desperately to spring to his feet, let Kirk see him, stop him at any cost from proceeding to his goal. Yet, a part of him knew already that there would be no way out. His own words came back to him, hitting him squarely in his mid-section.

'_If I let go of a hammer on a planet with positive gravity, I do not __need to see it fall to know that it has, in fact, fallen. Human beings have characteristics as well as the inanimate objects. It is impossible for Captain Kirk to act out of malice or panic.'_

Jim was so very right about him. How arrogant he had been in his assumptions! How could he ever have thought he understood humans? This human in particular? If only he could touch Jim's mind, for a short instant. If only he could know what made him push that data chip into the Klingon's waiting hands...

'_Impossible. Impossible. Impossible. Not Jim. Not Jim Kirk, never. Never-never-never-never-never...'_

It was happening. Illogical to deny. In helpless devastation, Spock watched Jim rise to his feet and leave, without looking back.

Spock didn't move, though how he managed to stay put when his whole being was screaming for him to run after Jim and force the truth out of him – the truth that would clear him – he never knew. He stayed still, watching the Klingon instead, remembering his orders. When the Klingon decided that it was safe for him to leave, Spock followed him discreetly outside.

Night had fallen over the town. Following he Klingon with relative ease, Spock waited until he was certain that nobody was around, then flipped open his communicator. He remembered the protocol well.

"Spock to Giotto."

The reply came instantly.

"Giotto here, sir."

"Commander, I require your assistance right away. I have found a white mouse, which I need to apprehend immediately."

For a moment and for a moment only, there was a thoughtful silence on the other end of the com link, as the Security Chief processed Spock's words. That wasn't the first time that made Spock question the rationale of the person who had come up with those code words in the first place. 'White mouse' stood for a major security leak, as oppose to 'gray mouse,' which meant a local problem.

"Yes, sir," Giotto said calmly. "Do you require a security squad?"

"Negative. Your presence would suffice."

"Understood."

Spock waited, without closing the channel, as he knew that Giotto would use it to pick up his coordinates more swiftly. The Klingon strode purposefully to the only building in the end of the street, never leaving Spock's view. A low hum of the transporter behind him informed him that the Security Chief had arrived. The Vulcan snapped his communicator shut.

"Reporting as ordered, sir," Giotto said quietly, taking in Spock's tense posture.

Giotto was absolutely calm. His years of experience made him invincible to stabs of idle curiosity that had been the most frequent cause of death among the security personnel, despite official medical records.

"Commander," Spock motioned him closer. "This man needs to be taken in custody," he pointed at the retreating Klingon. "Wait here. You services shall be required if I do not succeed."

"Understood."

Without further delay, Spock ran after the Klingon soundlessly, catching up with him in no time. Swiftly, before his adversary could realize what was happening, Spock glided over to him and paralyzed him with a nerve pinch. The limp form slumped heavily to his feet. Giotto hurried over in a controlled jog.

"Neat job, Commander," he said, surveying the Klingon. "Your orders?"

"Order your people to clear up the corridors between the Transporter Room and the brig. Then, you and I will beam up. He needs to be searched. I believe he carries a data chip, containing vital information regarding the security of the Federation. If we do indeed find it, you and I will watch it together before acting further."

Spock was speaking in curt sentences, his voice uncharacteristically sharp, albeit even. Giotto was thinking quickly. It did not surprise him at all that in the middle of a purely humanitarian mission Mr. Spock seemed to be engaged in an intelligence operation. Something in Spock's face, however, made him pause.

"Should we not also alert the Captain, sir?" he asked cautiously.

Spock looked him squarely in the eye.

"Commander," his voice was very quiet and as cold and hallow as the space itself. "We are in the course of investigating the breach of General Order 12. You will ask me no further questions until my previous orders are executed."

General Order 12. Spock was telling him that someone had committed an act of treason. And he didn't want to inform the Captain. All of a sudden, the Security Chief realized just how chilly the Maupak night was.

But the training that ran deep down his skin, becoming his second nature, took over. "Yes, sir," he nodded simply, reaching for his communicator.

Spock stared into the menacing darkness around them. He could not remember a time when he was less willing to return to the _Enterprise_. A place he had learned to call home...

--

The search proved fruitful just as Spock had expected. They found the chip and examined its contents. Spock was careful to include Giotto in every proceeding. The interrogation of the Klingon was a lengthy affair. The majority of the crew had returned from the surface, having concluded their task there, before they finally got a confession. The Klingon first denied everything, screamed, yelled, demanded to be released, practically exhausting Spock's reserves of patience. But in the end, he told them what they wanted to know, named the person who had given him the chip.

Giotto looked at Spock grimly, and was shocked to discover that the Vulcan wasn't surprised. He and Spock had served together for many years, and, although they had never been particularly close, he was fairly familiar with the Vulcan's non-reaction reactions. Spock had definitely known what the interrogation would reveal before it started.

"You will not speak of it with anyone," Spock told him levelly, as they exited the cell. "I shall go to the Captain. I would like to speak with him alone first."

Giotto frowned. This was a considerable step-down from the procedure.

"Is it wise, sir?" he dared to ask dubiously.

The Vulcan met his gaze steadily.

"I shall speak with him first," he reiterated firmly. "Wait here for further orders."

"Aye, sir."

It felt like the longest walk of his life. Half of him still couldn't believe it was happening. He knew that he had no way out of this, now that Giotto was in on the situation. Still, Spock refused to proceed with what was his duty before he had a chance to talk to Kirk. Maybe Jim would be able to explain it all. Maybe it wasn't what it seemed to be...

Spock realized full well he was grasping at straws, and yet he couldn't fully bring himself to believe the facts he had discovered himself. As he raised his hand to press the chime he noticed it was trembling. Such loss of control was unacceptable, and, with an enormous effort, reaching for all the years of his Vulcan training, Spock managed to steel himself before he pressed the buzzer.

Maybe Jim wasn't there...

"Come."

Spock stepped into the Captain's quarters to find Kirk sitting at his desk, apparently deep in paperwork. He looked up briefly, then, concentrated on his pad again.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Spock?"

"Sir, I have a matter of urgency and highest importance to discuss."

"At this hour?" Kirk asked almost carelessly. "That'd better be good. After what I've just been through on the planet, I've been enjoying the idea of getting at least a two hour sleep."

"I detest to be depriving you of your rest, sir," Spock said evenly, "but this cannot wait."

Kirk straightened up in his seat and turned to face his First Officer, measuring him up with a narrow veiled gaze.

"All right, let's hear it."

"Captain," Spock summoned all his willpower to maintain the necessary measure of control. "It is my duty to inform you that we have a crew member on board who has committed an act of treason by passing confidential strategic information to the Klingons."

Kirk raised his eyebrows in feigned disbelief. He was silent for a long moment, before saying:

"Indeed, Mr. Spock? These are very serious accusations."

"I am aware of that, sir. That is why I did not make them, until I came to be in possession of undeniable proof."

"You did, did you? What is your evidence?"

Spock produced a data chip out of his pocket, watching Kirk intently. The Captain gave no reaction to the sight.

"This chip contains information on the sector defense perimeter. I have been an eyewitness of the crew member in question passing this information to a Klingon agent. This agent is currently in our custody. His testimony confirms the transgression."

Slowly, Kirk came to his feet, his eyes never leaving Spock's, but nothing could be seen in this gaze save for a certain amount of dissatisfaction.

"Spock, do you know what you're doing?"

"Affirmative. I am saddened with the necessity–"

"Saddened?" Kirk asked, profound anger ringing now in his voice. "You've been spying on me! All this time I thought that you were trying to be my friend in what limited way you could and I tried to help you, and you paid me by using my trust to get my command! Oh, I know what this is really about, Spock! I didn't forget yesterday's meeting. You're longing for power. You paint me as a traitor and they make you captain in reward. Nice little scheme, no denying that. I expected more from a person of your intellect, but maybe I overestimated you after all!"

"Jim!" Spock realized he was losing his control rapidly, but he couldn't help it. His whole body was trembling quite visibly. "I _saw_ you passing information to the Klingons. I could not believe it, but it is illogical to deny the reality–"

"And we wouldn't want any of that, would we? No more stupid human irrationality in the way – no, thank you very much, we're doing things the Vulcan way now on this ship! For how long have you been planning this? For how long have you been lurking in shadows waiting for a chance to stab me in the back?"

"Captain, do you deny you have been working for the Klingons?"

"Deny it? How can I deny it when Mr. Impeccable Logic is against me? That would be _illogical_, wouldn't it?"

"Captain–"

"You know what? I think it doesn't really matter to you, whether I did this or not – you just wanna get rid of me. You know how I know that? Tell me, Commander, for how long did you have your suspicions before gaining this proof? Logical mind like yours, you must have been on it for some time. I want an answer, Spock, for how long?"

"For approximately four weeks six days, sir."

Kirk laughed bitterly. "Approximately four weeks... and in all this time – in all those four weeks, Spock, you didn't find it in you to come and talk to me?"

"Captain, according to regulations, this would not have been appropriate."

"No, certainly not. I've forgotten how attached you are to the regulations. I never thought I'd say it, Spock, but you are a coward."

Spock flinched, as if he was slapped, not because of the word itself, but because of the ferocity with which it was spoken. However much he tried to strengthen his shields, he could not adjust them enough to withstand the vehemence of emotions of this particular human. It had always been difficult for him to process any emotions Jim Kirk invoked in him, good or bad, and now he was painfully aware of his responses getting distinctly out of control.

"Very well, sir," he answered in a tight voice. "If one might inquire, what would you have done had our positions been reversed?"

"What I would have done? Commander, I treat those I consider friends differently. If my friend faced a situation like that, I'd try to help him. Do you know why? Because I understand what the word means, Spock. Because _I _care."

"Jim, I _do_ care!" the words shot out of him before he could prevent it. Kirk didn't want his care, Spock knew that, but he couldn't change the way he was feeling, nor continue to conceal it. "And I am your friend, even if–"

Wham! With all his superior reaction, he did not see the fist, not even when it collided painfully with his jaw. So fierce was the blow that Spock staggered backwards, lost his balance and fell down to the floor, head spinning.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare call yourself my friend ever again! By God, you've been deceiving me so skillfully! And I'm a fool. You're nothing but a sorry excuse for a man, Spock, neither human, nor Vulcan, just a mistake of nature." He stepped away from the defeated form of the First Officer, breathing hard and radiating disdain. "Oh, get up, Commander, you have a duty to perform. Don't make me think you're even worse an officer than you are a man."

Slowly, Spock got up to his feet. There was a strange buzz in his head that was not connected to the physical assault.

"You know, I almost feel sorry for you," Kirk said, watching him. "One day you'll understand who the true traitor in this room tonight was, Spock. I wouldn't want to be you on that day."

Silently, as the feeling of unreality crushed him, Spock pressed the com panel, and spoke, in a surprisingly controlled voice.

"Spock to security."

"Giotto here, sir."

"Commander, I need an armed detachment in the Captain's quarters right away. I also need you to be present, and I request that you ask Mr. Scott to report here as well."

There was a slight pause, and then Giotto replied.

"Aye, sir. We're on our way."

"Thank you. Spock out."

He felt split, divided in two persons, one cold, rational, knowing his duty, issuing correct orders. The other was terrified, wining, curling up in pain, which he could not fight. It was illogical to deny the reality, he had just said, a short while ago. Yet, he couldn't help but feel he was having a walking dream. Someone else, who sounded remarkably like him, summoned the security. Someone else was going to tell them what happened. He could only watch and wait for this nightmare to end.

They waited in silence. Kirk standing rigidly, hands on his hips, in the far side of the room, looking at the wall, and Spock, at the door, mute and indifferent, like a computer, staring fixedly straight ahead without really seeing anything. Finally, the doors opened, and four men walked in, taking in the interior of the room.

"Captain," Scott started cautiously. "What's going on?"

Kirk turned then, and looked at Spock pointedly, as if challenging him to speak.

"Mr. Scott, you are here as a witness of command grade," Spock said, his eyes fixed on the Captain. "Commander, I hereby bring charges of treason against Captain James T. Kirk and request that you take him into custody, in accordance to Starfleet regulation section six, article one."

"What?!" Scotty exclaimed aghast. "Mr. Spock, are ye outta yer mind? Captain?"

But Kirk remained pointedly silent, hint of grim satisfaction lurking in the corners of his eyes. Giotto, whose reaction was far less evident, looked at Spock calmly. Regardless of the fact that he knew the answers, he abided by the protocol.

"Commander Spock, are you ready to present evidence supporting your accusations?"

"I am."

"Captain Kirk, how will you respond to the accusations brought against you by Commander Spock?"

Kirk's eyes were fixed on Spock, but the expression in them was unreadable. Spock knew the graveness of his own situation. To bring charges against a captain of a vessel while on duty was almost unthinkable. Captain's authority was the highest aboard a ship. Should Kirk say any word now, and it would be him, Spock, who'd have to defend himself, evidence of any kind notwithstanding. Even Giotto wouldn't support him against the Captain, should Kirk claim he was innocent. He knew, he saw it in Kirk's eyes, that the Captain knew that, too. Strangely, Spock felt he didn't care. He watched the Captain calmly, awaiting his decision.

"You heard Mr. Spock, Commander," Kirk said softly. "He has evidence."

"I demand this evidence to be presented!" Scotty exploded. "I can't believe–"

Silently, Spock showed him the chip and repeated word for word what he had told Kirk when originally presenting his charges. Giotto spoke curtly for Scott's benefit about his role in the described events. Scotty appeared unconvinced, but didn't say anything, realizing that Spock, of all people, had to be five times as sure in order to come up with serious charges like that.

"Captain, what can you say about this evidence?" Giotto asked him, observing protocol by the letter.

Kirk shrugged. "It exists."

"Are you in a position to deny its credence?"

"No."

"Doubt it?"

"No."

"Do you acknowledge your guilt?"

"That," Spock interrupted him, "is for the court-martial to decide."

"Yes, sir," the Security Chief looked upon Spock's face fixedly. "Will you be pressing charges regarding personal assault as well?"

Only now did Scotty notice the large ugly bruise spreading around the corner of Spock's mouth and gasped. The Vulcan shook his head curtly.

"No."

"Very well, sir. Captain Kirk, you are now relieved of command until the circumstances of this occurrence are cleared by the general court-martial. You will be placed in the brig in accordance with regulation Six, article One, subsection Twelve. Officers," he nodded to the guards.

Spock watched calmly as they escorted Kirk out of the room. The Captain appeared to be absolutely calm, no signs of anger or any other emotion on his face. As the doors closed behind them, Scotty turned to him, at a complete loss to understand any of it.

"How did that happen, Mr. Spock?" he asked helplessly. "How did ye let this happen?"

Spock had no answer for either the Engineer, or himself.


	12. Walk the Plank

**Chapter 11**

**Walk the Plank**

Dazed, Spock strode along the corridor, without apparent goal. No, that was not entirely correct. He knew where he had to be, what he had to be doing. His exchange with Scott still rang loudly in his ears. Spock could not understand why he had been so slow in answering the Engineer's questions, but for a considerable amount of time they had spent in the Captain's quarters, his difficulty to concentrate had been steadily progressing. Some tiny voice in the back of his mind was telling him that Mr. Scott was taking his lack of desire to explain things properly very personally and was duly angry with him, yet he discovered he was unable to answer questions in more than three words at a time.

After Mr. Scott had left the Captain's quarters, feeling nothing lesser than stupefied, Spock turned to go too. His body was numb, as if he was stunned by some unusual paralyzer, which did not prevent him from moving, only from feeling. His eyes were open, yet he couldn't see. As a result, he bumped into someone, being caught completely by surprise by that fact.

"Mr. Spock!" it was Quaint, accompanied by Nurse Chapel.

"My God," the Nurse muttered, staring at his face.

"What's going on?" Quaint asked. "We saw the Captain and the security boys..."

"Speculation is unworthy of a Starfleet officer," Spock informed her in a dead voice. "Please allow me to pass. I must deliver an announcement for the entire crew."

"Oh no, you don't," Chapel declared firmly. "Not looking like that."

He felt his eyebrow rise, despite himself.

"I did not realize, Nurse, that you were now my commanding officer," he said coldly.

It was a certain sign of how grave an impression his appearance made on them that neither woman looked affected by his rebuff in the slightest.

"She's right, Spock," Quaint squared her shoulders. "You can't allow the crew to see you like this."

"There must be an emergency medical kit in the intersection," Chapel said. "I'll get it in a moment."

"Go," Quaint nodded. "We'll be in Mr. Spock's quarters."

Without hesitation, she did something she had never imagined herself doing: grabbed his arm firmly and steered him along the corridor. Spock offered no resistance.

As the doors closed behind them, Jessica rounded on him, taking in his subdued posture and stricken face.

"What happened?" she demanded, her hands on her hips.

He didn't raise his eyes to meet hers. The sight struck her as completely unbelievable.

"Spock," she spoke more quietly. "Are you all right? Do you want a glass of water?"

He shook his head, no. Before she could ask further, the door slid open, and Nurse Chapel walked in, medical kit in her hand.

"Sit down," she ordered briskly. When Spock didn't appear quick enough to execute this command, she pushed him firmly to the chair. "Now, what do we have here?" she muttered, her fingers lifting up his chin towards the light.

Despite the utter graveness of the situation, Quaint felt her lips twitching in a small smile, as she watched the usually very shy around the Vulcan Nurse manhandling him without any reservations whatsoever and making a good imitation of Doctor McCoy in the process. Spock endured her actions patiently; he didn't seem to even notice. In fact, Quaint thought with a renewing frown, he appeared to be completely out of it.

Chapel leant closer to him, her face gathered in concentration as she worked her tissue regenerator, cleaning the abused vessels, removing all signs of the painful collision with an angry fist. Spock didn't move, but as soon as she finished, he leapt to his feet and headed towards the doors.

"But, Mr. Spock, I haven't–"

"That will be all, Nurse, thank you," he snapped in a dead voice, removing her firmly from his way. "I need to get to the Bridge."

He left before either of them could say another word.

"Well," Chapel looked at Quaint quizzically. "How deep do you think we are?"

"Obviously, deep enough to drown," Quaint said darkly. She smiled, watching Christine staring at her hand that had touched Spock's skin. "I suppose you're not going to wash it for a week now?"

The Nurse didn't react to the jibe; her hands ran over her forearms, where Spock had touched her, moving her out of his way.

"He's cold," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"He's cold," Chapel repeated, frowning. "I thought something was wrong when I touched him, but I didn't realize what it was until now. His skin felt cool, which means his body temperature is even lower than mine. And his hands kind of... quivered," she looked up at Quaint with obvious concern. "Jess, I don't know what happened, but I think he's gone into shock."

Quaint's expression matched hers.

"I'd better get to the Bridge."

"Right," Chapel nodded. "And I'm gonna check on Scotty."

"No," Quaint caught her by the arm. "You'd better get back to Sick Bay. If I read any of this correctly, there might well be an explosion there after Mr. Spock's address. He's not in the best shape and the last thing he'll need is–"

"–Doctor McCoy in his overload mode," Christine finished for her. "I'm on it."

Understanding was always quick to spring up between them when Spock was concerned, they left the First Officer's quarters together, experiencing similar level of trepidation.

--

"Mr. Spock," Uhura said softly.

He had just finished his address, and was standing rigidly at the command chair, his hands lying on its arm seemingly flat, hiding the fact that he was using it for balance. Nobody spoke, nobody probably even breathed. They were all staring at him dumbstruck, unable to accept what he had just told them. Finally, Uhura shifted, alerted by a signal from her console; for a moment, she listened to her earpiece, then looked at Spock uncertainly.

"Mr. Spock."

He glanced at her at last.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Starfleet Command for you, sir," she said quietly.

Fast, Spock thought. Indeed, Giotto was most efficient in sending his report to Command, as was his duty. And fast it was that the Command had processed it already.

"On screen," he ordered calmly.

They all turned reflexively towards the main viewscreen, where the strict face of Admiral Cartwright appeared. Despite his preoccupation, Spock felt his eyebrow rise just a bit. He expected Lewton. But then, he mused, it would not be correct or – logical.

"Admiral," he bowed his head slightly.

"Commander Spock," Cartwright surveyed him grimly. "This is devastating news I hear from your vessel."

"Indeed, Admiral."

"Catastrophic, in fact. Is Captain Kirk detained?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. No one must have any contact with him, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"No interrogations, questioning, or checks. Starfleet protocol must be observed to the letter. No one must approach that brig."

"Yes, sir."

Cartwright fixed him with a hard glare, not buying his apparent submissiveness.

"Yourself included, Mr. Spock, I want to be very clear on that. As the new captain of the _Enterprise_ you must have absolutely no contact with that traitor."

Spock felt his heart miss a beat.

"Admiral, surely you are not–"

"Yes, I am, Commander, or rather it's Captain now, as your field promotion is already in effect. No, Mr. Spock, I know you have objections, and I don't want to hear them. Nobody's happy with the situation, I assure you."

"Admiral, I am unfit for command."

"Why? The last report on your health stated you were in perfect condition."

"That is correct, however–"

"Then, whatever reservations you have – deal with them, Captain. The _Enterprise_ is yours now, and I don't have any time to discuss it further. You are to proceed to Starbase 23 immediately. You will hand the prisoner over to Starfleet Security there. He is not to be approached until then, by anyone, least of all you, do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Spock's voice became tight, but didn't waver.

"I want to be perfectly clear, Spock," Cartwright reiterated, never letting his eyes drop. "If I hear that you've been anywhere near Kirk, anywhere at all, I'll personally see to it that you spend the next several months in federal prison."

"I will comply with your orders, Admiral," Spock said levelly.

"I most certainly hope so," with that final blast, Cartwright had finally loosened up a bit. "Jim Kirk," he shook his head incredulously. "Who'd have thought it was possible?"

Spock didn't think the question required an answer, so he gave none. Cartwright recovered quickly from a moment's distraction.

"You have your orders, Captain. Cartwright out."

The screen went blank. Spock suddenly realized that they were all looking at him with an expectant air. He straightened up forcefully.

"Set a course for Starbase 23, Mr. Sulu," Spock said. "Warp six."

"Aye, sir," the helmsman replied promptly.

A yeoman came over, somewhat hesitantly, and handed him a fuel consumption report. Spock had signed those about as often as Kirk did, maybe even more often, as he personally instructed all personnel to approach him, if he was available, with anything that did not specifically demanded the Captain's signature, trying to take as much paperwork as possible from Kirk's plate. Yet now his hand gave an almost imperceptible shake, as he took the pad from the yeoman. She looked up at him, as if asking whether she really saw it, but his face was a glacial mask, all reactions under tight control.

He could feel the tension circulating around him, saw their rigid postures, heard uncertain notes in their voices. Every expression forever imprinted in his mind: the wide-eyed fright on Uhura's face, the total lack of comprehension on Chekov's, shock and disbelief on Sulu's, astonishment and pained understanding on Quaint's... Spock knew they trusted him, but he also knew that they had uncompromising faith in Captain Kirk. The news that he broke to them must have been extremely confusing, yet he did not know what to do about it.

"I realize," he said suddenly, surprising himself for he hadn't plan on it, "that what happened is unexpected and difficult to accept." They all turned to look at him. "It is no less for me."

Several moments passed in overwrought silence, as they continued to watch him for any signs of reassurance, which he couldn't give. He desperately needed one himself. Finally, Spock shifted, realizing he still had a duty to perform.

"You have the Bridge, Lieutenant," he nodded to Sulu.

"Aye, sir."

He felt their eyes on him all the way to the turbolift, which seemed to take forever. He struggled to maintain his impassive exterior and not to duck under this intangible fire.

"Deck Five," he said, finally reaching his destination.

As the turbolift doors closed behind him, he could no longer suppress a shiver that ran through his body. Feeling the closing breakdown, he reached for the handle blindly.

"Halt."

The lift stopped. Heavily, he leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes in an attempt to regain control. His head was spinning.

Fast. Too fast. The Command was in a hurry – why? They didn't need to make him captain so soon, even temporarily. What could be achieved by this urgency? There was this regulation that a starship could not be on active patrol without a captain, but Spock knew as well as anyone that there had been various exceptions to this rule. He had been a long-time first officer of the _Enterprise_, and an even longer time officer; he knew the ship inside out; the crew was used to having him in this role, and didn't question his authority on this level. There was truly no need for this field promotion, no necessity whatsoever.

He knew they could not be thinking of leaving the _Enterprise_ to him permanently. Whether or not he was ready to become captain was debatable, but, even if the Command believed him to be ready, they would unlikely have given him command of any flagship, let alone the _Enterprise_, the fleet's pride and joy. And, even if that improbability happened, it would never have happened like that, a decision made on the back of a napkin, five minutes into reading the report on Captain Kirk's transgression.

Something was terribly wrong with this picture; something was completely out of place here. To his surprise, he realized that what was missing, what he expected to see and yet didn't, was a very human reaction to the news. He, a Vulcan, had spent weeks, days, hours, trying to assimilate the impossible idea of Jim Kirk, a traitor, in his mind, with no success until very recently, and it still made him squirm. Nothing should have mattered for him, except the truth, yet it did – and to some quite unbelievable degree, too. How could these humans, who knew Jim for years, too, who had served with him, be so quick in accepting his crime? Spock was no expert in human emotions, but wasn't it natural to experience a certain amount of doubt or sheer disbelief? After all, what Kirk had done was the highest transgression possible, and until some months lately, he had given no indication he might ever turn this way.

There could be only one logical explanation – what happened was not a surprise. Too well rehearsed the Command's reaction was. Too well prepared. As if they had long known it would happen this way, albeit hoping it wouldn't. For how long had they suspected Jim? How could these people see what was happening from so far away, when he, Spock, didn't, being so close?

A surge of pain made him press his fingers to his temple. He was here, beside Jim, all the time, and he didn't see this coming. He called the human his friend, yet when something had gone so terribly wrong with him to cause this drastic change, Spock didn't sense it. McCoy had been correct, they had all been correct. He was cold-blooded and insensitive. And Jim was right in his wish to push him away. What good could he be to his Captain? To anyone?

Struggling with strokes of pain tingling under his skull, he straightened up determinedly. He must not think of it, not now. Logical or not, right or wrong, at the moment, he was the Captain; he was supposed to lead, not to hide away in a bastion of self-doubt and guilt. Those were his crimes, and he'd have to deal with them later.

"Resume," he said, straightening up, and feeling a twinge of pleasure at how firm his voice sounded.

The lift started on, a change noted by a slight difference in barely imperceptible vibration. In several short moments it took to arrive to Deck Five, Spock had mastered to completely rebuild his equanimity, at least on the façade. Nobody needed to be aware of an uncontrollable void of pained conflicting sensations whirling up inside of him.

Starfleet protocol must be observed to the letter, which meant that he was now faced with a highly unpleasant task of going through Captain Kirk's personal belongings, his papers and computer files in order to discover additional clues to his offence. He detested the idea, but realized his reaction was illogical. Something else was missing from this well of devastation he was rapidly falling in. Something... or someone?

Shaking his head, Spock entered his command override code to unlock the Captain's door and walked in resolutely. He was a Vulcan. He was a Starfleet officer. Duty must come first.

--

"You've arrested him?" McCoy asked incensed. "You've arrested him?"

Spock suppressed a sigh. General address to the crew had been bad enough, the following conversation with Starfleet Command much worse, and this – this was probably the worst of it.

"He did not leave me any choice, Doctor."

"Really? I find that hard to believe. How could you do this, Spock? I thought he was your friend!"

"Doctor, what would you have me do? Allow a known transgressor to commit more damaging acts?"

"Good God. No, I don't want to have another word with you. You're as cold, as your damn planet is hot, Spock, and just as barren! You don't have a heart, do you? The man was your best friend for two years, and you put him in the brig, as if he was some blasted Klingon! Has it even occurred to you to ask him what happened? No, you just brought the cavalry in and locked him up without so much as a chance to explain himself! I can't believe that even you could be so damn callous!"

"Doctor–"

"I demand to see him!"

"Doctor, you may only see him in your official capacity as Chief Medical Officer – for the single purpose of medical examination, which must be conducted in the presence of security officers."

McCoy stared at him in deepening shock.

"God, Spock, what has happened to you? It's _Jim_ we're talking about!"

"I am very well aware of the prisoner's identity, Doctor. You have my permission to conduct an examination."

"Fine!" McCoy spat out furiously. "Fine! I'll do that, you, heartless unfeeling son of a bitch!"

"I would be interested to know the results."

"I don't think I'd be in the mood to talk to you ever again, Mr. Spock, much less about Jim!"

"That is unfortunate, for you undoubtedly will have to."

"Don't you pull your rank again! We aren't all blasted automatons like you!"

"Doctor, I am not pulling anything, I am merely reminding you of your obligation to submit a report."

"And just out of curiosity, Mr. Spock, what will you do, if I don't? Put me in the brig as well?"

"No, but I will have to use another medical officer to conduct the examination."

"You'll get your blasted report. If that's all you care about, that's all you're gonna get."

With that, the Doctor stormed out of the Captain's quarters, never looking back.

He was too frustrated to think straight. Surely, there must have been a mistake of some kind. Spock, blast him, couldn't see some details, or layer, or something that proved Kirk's innocence. And the Captain was simply playing along because he was mad at Spock for cheating him at chess or something. And for that, Jim would get his fair share from him, just then. The Doctor barely remembered to stop by Sick Bay to pick up his equipment.

He entered the brig in a most gruesome mood he had ever been in his life, snapping at the guard on duty, who inquired politely for his purpose. He could see Kirk lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He didn't react to the visitor in any way, which only inspired McCoy's anxiety. Finally, the force field was lowered, and the Doctor stepped in, well aware of the guard keeping watch behind his back.

"Jim," McCoy called, coming closer slowly. "Jim, are you all right?"

Kirk sat up lazily, looking at the Doctor without any real interest.

"Doctor. What are you doing here?"

"Medical examination," McCoy almost spat the words.

"Ah, yes, of course. I can see Mr. Spock does know the regulations well. You may proceed."

"Jim," McCoy bent over to him, trying to catch his gaze. "For heaven's sake, it's me. What's going on?"

"I would think this would be clear by now. I've committed an act of treason."

"Please. I know you, it's not possible."

"What, Spock didn't show you the evidence?"

"I don't give a damn about his blasted evidence! What the hell's happening, Jim?"

The guard cleared his throat pointedly. Cursing, McCoy took out his medical scanner and started to take Kirk's readings. The Captain ignored both his actions and his question.

"Are you feeling any pain?"

"No."

"Discomfort?"

"No."

"Sleep trouble?"

"Traitors don't sleep."

"Damn it, Jim, you're not a traitor. I don't care what Spock thinks he saw–"

"Aren't you overstepping your bounds, Doctor?" Kirk peered at him coolly. "You're here to determine my health status, nothing else."

For a moment, McCoy stared at him perplexed. "Why don't you want to talk to me? I'm here to ascertain your mental status as well, you know."

Kirk looked up at him calmly. "Do I strike you as mentally imbalanced?"

"No, but you don't resemble Jim Kirk I know, either."

"That's a matter of opinion, Doctor. I assure you, I'm me. If you don't believe your equipment, ask me any question you wish."

"All right, then," McCoy folded his arms across his chest. "Where did we first meet, and what was the first thing I said to you?"

"Lira II, field hospital. You saw my leg and asked me if I was born an idiot or that was a recent development."

"I can easily ask you the same question now."

"And I can easily give you the same answer."

"You told me to mind my own business."

"And you said that _was_ your business. There's nothing wrong with my memory, Doc."

"Apparently not, but something is terribly wrong with you. Acts like that don't fall into your profile."

"Then it's time to update it."

"Jim, please–"

"Your time is up, Doctor," the guard told him firmly. "Are you finished?"

"Not quite!" McCoy snapped.

"Yes, you are," Kirk said just as firmly. "If you have nothing better to do than to bother people, I suggest you stick close to your new captain. He doesn't mind it as much as I always have."

He suddenly grimaced and lifted a hand to his temple. McCoy frowned instantly.

"What is it, Jim?" he asked with renewed concern, medical scanner at the ready. "I don't detect anything, but you're obviously in pain."

Kirk dropped his hand and straightened up, his eyes calm and veiled.

"I'm not in pain, just tired of your company. Honestly, Doctor, do you think I want to talk to you about what I'd done? Don't you think I already feel bad enough about being caught?"

"Jim..." McCoy's voice became hoarse, the hair on the back of his neck tickling with electricity. "You don't wanna say you really..."

Kirk's laughter sounded cruel.

"Oh, I did it all right. Don't look so shocked, Doctor, don't look like you care."

"Jim-"

"Where were you," Kirk asked with sudden vehemence, "when I was getting into trouble? When I needed a friend at my side, someone to hold on to, someone to keep me on track? Where were you and your precious concern then? Wiping some running Klingon nose? Dueling with that green-blooded bastard? Bet no guilty conscience disturbed your sleep, eh? Well, here's something to dwell upon, Doctor. I'm the only one to get punished, but I'm not the only one to blame," he practically hissed the words, filled with disdain and anger. "Guard! We're finished here. You can show the Doctor out."

Deeply disturbed, face white with shock and desolation, McCoy left the cell shaking. He could not utter one word to the worried guard who walked him out of the brig. This was the end, he thought. If men like Jim Kirk could go rotten like that, there was hardly anything in this universe one could depend on.

--

Scotty frowned as another chorus of raised voices erupted in the Officers' Mess. He came here in order to find some peace, but it looked more and more as if he couldn't possibly have chosen a worse place tonight. Despite the late hour, the large room was overcrowded with the members of the crew discussing the unbelievable events of the day.

Scotty sighed, trying to concentrate on his technical journal once again. After being summoned to the Captain's quarters to be a witness of this unprecedented act, he could not quite calm down. His own department, his refuge, his home turned upside down after Spock's general address to the crew.

Mandy was the worst of all. She'd been giving him some trouble lately, but he dismissed it, knowing that she'd been thoroughly upset with Quaint's leaving. She and Jessica had known each other for too long, and the news of her leaving for good hit Mandy hard. But, it was more even than that. What Scott had said to Christine during one of their coffee rallies some weeks ago had also been true. He knew that Mandy was due for promotion, that Starfleet offered her a position of the engineering captain on another starship. There was, however, another aspect of the situation, which made him feel especially uneasy.

After years of being devoted to the engines only, Mandy had suddenly taken a detour towards the basics of human nature. Unfortunately, her focus was none other than Captain Kirk himself. Not that she'd spent too much time in his company, but the signs of her affection were so obvious that even Scott couldn't ignore them for much longer.

Being sincerely concerned for her, he had tried to gently talk her out of it. He realized he was no good in dealing with emotions of this nature, yet, he couldn't stand idly by, watching indifferently as his deputy sank in her suddenly developed feelings towards her commanding officer. He tried to explain, awkwardly and hesitantly, that she did not exactly fall into Jim Kirk's type. In fact, he knew for certain that after a disastrous affair with Helen Noel, the Captain made it a rule for himself not to get involved with any of the crew.

Mandy didn't seem to be willing to listen. She used every opportunity to get close to the Captain, and Kirk was too much a gentleman to make a notice. Scott realized there was very little he could do, so he tried to keep it low profile. The news of Kirk's actions, however, was bound to make Mandy berserk.

Scotty sighed. At first, he was so incensed with the idea, he could barely make himself think straight. Now, weighing his feelings carefully, he realized suddenly that he could not ignore the evidence at hand. If it were anyone else, _anyone_ at all, bringing it up, he'd have doubts. But Spock... He had served with the Vulcan too long, he had known him too well. Jim Kirk a traitor was an unbelievable concept, but a dishonest, treacherous or deluded Spock was simply out of the realm of possibility.

He remembered what Captain Pike had said about Spock once. _He is honest to a flaw_. Grinding his teeth, Scotty fought the impulse to start swearing again, the way he did when he stormed into Engineering after witnessing Kirk's arrest. The darned Vulcan was insensitive to a flaw, that much was certain, but when serious issues like that arose, Scotty realized painfully that he trusted this insensitive cool intelligence, however much he might not like it.

His mood expressively foul, he grabbed a technical journal and left, unable to talk to his staff just then. Now, well, now, a lot of them were here, along with a hell lot of other people, mostly from low level technical support services – security, administrative, medical. Several officers were present, too, mostly from the same departments. Somebody brought alcohol, and a great amount of it, too. To Scotty's dismay, Mandy was there, sharing what appeared to be the fifth drink with the rest of them.

Scott frowned, but remained silent. He was no prude, and technically, they were not doing anything wrong. The ship was several hours out of the Neutral Zone, well within Federation space, and they were off duty. Still, getting drunk together under such circumstances didn't seem like a good idea.

The room was becoming steadily louder, but Scotty, coming across a particularly enchanting description of warp core enhancements, wasn't aware of that. The angry, agitated voices didn't register, bouncing off of him, like waves of the rock. It was a loud exclamation, almost a shout, full of uncontrollable rage that finally made him snap out of his reverie.

"'_It would appear that way?'_ You mean you've arrested him when you aren't even sure?"

Scotty looked up, barely able to see what was happening through the fence of bodies, standing between him and the other end of the room, where all the action took place.

"I am sufficiently convinced in the propriety of my actions, Mr. Pai." Spock's voice sounded mildly subdued.

"Well, forgive us, Commander, but we can't quite believe it." It was Ensign Zard from security. "We've served with Captain Kirk a long time, and we can't believe he's a traitor!"

"Mr. Zard, you are inebriated."

"Is that a reason not to answer his question?" Mandy demanded, advancing on the Vulcan, along with the rest of her drinking companions.

"Not all of us are ready to accept your word on it, Vulcan!"

"Yeah, you're too damn interested, Commander!"

Scotty found himself on his feet faster than the motion registered. What the devil were they doing? He realized suddenly that he could not get through the agitated crowd at once.

On the other side of the room, Spock found it more and more difficult to remain calm. After struggling through various reports on the incident, ship's status, mission logs and efficiency ratings, after sealing off Captain Kirk's papers, – all the time his disheveled inner side threatening to lose him the remains of his concentration, - his state was so weakened, he could barely uphold minimal shielding, preventing his inner turmoil to be seen, but hardly sparing him the reactions of others. He came to the mess to retrieve a cup of herbal tea for he knew he had to maintain his body efficiency and that was the least he could do, not being hungry in the slightest.

Having difficulty concentrating, he was barely aware of the room's occupants as he entered the mess, and was caught off guard when the crewmembers present suddenly confronted him. Bombarded by virulent emotions thrown at him with violent intensity, it was all he could manage not to sway.

Uhura and Sulu, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, not taking part in the general activities, were watching the scene with pained concern. They glanced at each other uncertainly when Spock first started to answer the questions. They, too, wanted to hear some answers, to receive some clues telling them how to deal with this horrible situation. Spock didn't give them much on the Bridge, and despite Command's intervention they still didn't know what to think. So they waited. But, when the angry crowd stepped closer, surrounding Spock, Uhura sprang to her feet without conscious intention.

Suddenly, Spock's field of vision was blocked effectively, as a fine-lined back clad in red appeared right in front of him.

"Back off!" Uhura snapped at her shipmates, hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. "You're all way out of line!"

Before Spock could say anything, Sulu came to stand at her side, providing a more effective barrier between the Vulcan and the humans.

"And why do you defend him?" Mathewson asked, her voice trailing off in cold fury. She had more than a few drinks in her. "I've known Jim Kirk for years! No bloody pointy-eared freak is gonna tell me he's a Klingon bitch!"

Scotty felt his blood chill at these words, and he began to elbow his way through with redoubled strength.

"Watch your mouth, Lieutenant!" Sulu snapped angrily. "It's _Captain_ Kirk, _Captain_ Spock, and you're drunk and mutinous!"

"Oh, he calls himself Captain now!" Mandy exclaimed, earning herself a heartfelt cheer. "Well, here's something for you to can, Mister," she stepped even closer, her finger waving a bit uncertainly, but menacingly in Spock's direction. "The _Enterprise_ serves no other captain than Captain James T. Kirk, so you can shove that pretty new title right up your–"

"Mandy!" finally emerging from the crowd, red-faced with effort and indignation, Scotty pushed her back roughly. "That's no way to talk to yer commanding officer!"

She stared at him in shock, her lips started to tremble as if he'd just slapped her.

"You... you switched sides!" she hissed in anger and betrayal. "Back in Engineering, you were with us! You said you didn't know what that Vulcan was playing at!"

Scotty squared his shoulders.

"Then, I was outta line along with the rest of ye!" he admitted, his voice unwavering. "And for that I will bear the same disciplinary action. What ye're all doing here is insubordination and mutiny. Lieutenant," he glanced sideways at Uhura, who was breathing heavily, eyes wide, yet their expression determined. "Call in security. This whole lot is going to the brig."

"That will not be necessary, Mr. Scott," Spock's deep voice sounded loud in the ensuing silence. He stepped forward, the Bridge officers giving him way automatically. Spock's dispassionate gaze surveyed the room, as if he was cataloguing every detail. "There has never been a mutiny on a starship," he stated levelly. "If the _Enterprise_ becomes the first precedent, the consequences for those who are responsible would be most unfortunate."

His tone was icy, literary freezing everyone's thoughts. They were watching him warily, suddenly he seemed higher and more menacing than any of them had ever thought possible. Almost any of them. Uhura had to fight not to tremble; Spock's resemblance of his evil Mirror universe counterpart was striking at the moment.

"However, I understand," he said suddenly, "that what happened was bound to provoke a highly emotional reaction. Those circumstances are unique, and humans often react illogically when dealing with the unexpected. I am not... uncomprehending of your predicament. I am willing to disregard what had just happened here – on one condition. Your word that this will not happen again."

They stared at him in utter shock. Finally, it was Mandy who spoke.

"You are willing to trust us – on our word?"

Spock's lips twitched, and his voice was heavily infiltrated with tired irony when he answered.

"Yes, Ms. Mathewson. Consider it another flaw on the part of 'pointy-eared freak,' but I have always found your word to be reliable."

She couldn't find it in her to reply.

"Mr. Scott," Spock turned to him, apparently satisfied with the reaction. "All these crewmen are restricted to quarters for the next twelve hours. See to it."

"Aye, sir," Scotty's grim answer came promptly.

"Might I also trouble you," Spock continued, "to see that there are no alcohol beverages available in the public areas of the ship in the future?"

Swallowing hard, Scotty nodded readily.

"Aye, sir."

"Then, gentlemen," Spock looked over the silent crowd again. "That will be all."

He strode to the doors purposefully and was almost clear, when Scotty called out to him, his voice loud and clear.

"Captain?"

Slowly, Spock turned to look at him.

"Yes, Mr. Scott?"

"Ye realize that I should be restricted to quarters too?"

Something gave in Spock's expressionless face, his features softened by mere bit, almost undetectably, as his gaze slid over Uhura, Sulu and finally rested on the Engineer.

"Mr. Scott, to the best of my knowledge, you have committed no offence to deserve a disciplinary action," their eyes locked and held, and although Scotty was not as trained in reading Spock as Kirk or McCoy, he could tell that the Vulcan was not angry with him – or with any of them. "Our engines have sustained considerable damage in our last encounter with the Klingons," Spock said quietly. "I shall be gratified if you report to me as soon as they are restored to their normal capacity."

"Aye, sir," Scotty breathed out, not realizing until then that he had been holding his breath. "Thank ye, Captain."

Without another word, Spock left the room.


	13. My Brother's Keeper

**Chapter 12**

**My Brother's Keeper**

Late evening brought in darkness and a certain sense of depression. Strange, Christine thought, glancing around Sick Bay. It was empty now, but it was far from that during the day. The Head Nurse sighed heavily, her hand sliding up the smooth skin on the back of her neck, trying to ease the angry tension in the muscles. It had been a busy day.

It was hard to tell if all the fights and rows were inevitable, but being one of those who'd had eventually to deal with the consequences, she wished they weren't. She barely had the time to sit down throughout the day. Leslie asked her for lunch again, and for once she agreed, only so both of them would end up back in Sick Bay faster than they'd eaten the first course – him with a leg injury, her treating him. She sighed tiredly, unwilling to go back to her report. It had been a long day.

A silhouette appeared in the doorway making her jump.

"Geez!"

"Hey, it's only me." The dark figure drew nearer, waving a reassuring hand.

"Jess?" Christine stared at her, trying to catch her breath. "What are you doing here?"

"I need to speak with him," Quaint's face was resolute and very serious. "I know he's in there."

"It's not a good idea," Chris frowned. "He doesn't want to see anyone. I tried to talk to him earlier. He yelled at me."

"He yelled at you?"

The Nurse's face darkened. "Why should that surprise you? After he discovered the Captain had been removed overnight, he's been so angry, I don't remember seeing him like this – ever."

"And when you say 'Captain' you mean Captain Kirk, I presume?" Quaint said.

"What? Oh, of course," Christine blushed. "How's... our new Captain doing?"

Quaint sighed. "Not great. That's what I need to see the Doctor about."

"I don't know, Jess," the Nurse intoned dubiously. "He's positively mad at him for not saying anything."

Quaint frowned. "The orders came just before the Security shuttle. There wasn't time. Besides, I've seen the orders. Captain Spock wasn't allowed to tell anyone until the transfer was complete."

"How did you know then?"

Quaint glanced at her, and Christine smiled in understanding. "It's nice to have friends like Uhura, isn't it?"

"It certainly has its advantages."

"What I can't get is – why are we still going to the Starbase? I thought we were only ordered there to hand over Captain Kirk, but since they have already taken him..."

"Debriefing," Quaint replied in disgust. "Spock is... I mean the Captain is going to answer a lot of questions and give official testimony," she paused. "Then, there's some crew rotation."

Chris looked up at her. "Jess..."

Quaint averted her eyes. "I really need to speak with the Doctor, Christine. Excuse me."

"He's not going to listen to you," Christine called after her.

"Oh yes, he will," Quaint looked back. "I'm a pregnant woman who's not going to be around for the next ninety years or so. I'll make him listen."

She strode soundlessly towards the office and entered without buzzing first.

Doctor McCoy was sitting at his desk, though sitting was probably the wrong word to describe his posture. It looked more like sinking. His limp form was indeed sinking – in his chair, his desk, and in an open and almost empty bottle of Saurian brandy. She could tell he had trouble focusing on her as she entered; however, he did make an effort to straighten up.

"Lieutenant Quaint?"

She looked at him with cold irony. "Isn't that somewhat official?"

"All right then, Jessica, darling. Is this better? What can I do for you?"

"Not much in your current condition."

He shook his head, his eyes glinting darkly. "I'm not drunk, Jess. I tried to get drunk, but... I'm sorry I missed your last physical. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged dismissively.

"Doctor M'Benga says both me and the baby are fine."

"I wanted to be there," McCoy whispered. "You're leaving us in two days–"

"Doctor, I didn't come here to talk about my physical. Or my leaving."

He lifted hurt, tortured eyes to meet hers at last, a flash of anger alighting them for an instant.

"Please don't," he said, with a sharp edge in his voice. "I don't mean to be rude, but if you talk to me about Spock, I just might."

"I must," she said. "Look, I know you're angry with him–"

"Angry? Dammit, I thought I could kill him. How could he have done this to me? To Jim? Has he no decency under that thick Vulcan hive of his?"

"Doctor, Captain Kirk–"

"Has committed an act of treason, I know. Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Well, surprise! None of us feel good about it!" she retorted angrily, her patience running thin; then, she took a deep breath to calm her temper. "That's why I came to talk to you. I'm worried about Spock."

"Oh, for the love of my sanity," he sank back into his chair tiredly, equally drained by the exchange. "What's to worry about? Blasted cold-blooded piece of automation..."

Her light-brown eyes turned almost Uhura's dark chocolate, pinning him effectively to the chair.

"His life is in danger."

McCoy stared at her. "What? Lieutenant, you're raving."

She inhaled deeply several times before starting to speak again.

"I'm sure Christine told you he wasn't eating ever since... the arrest. She's worried."

"Christine worries if the sun goes up."

"And I can personally vouch that he didn't get any sleep, either."

McCoy grinned at her slyly. "You don't mean to say that he's finally opened his eyes to what a jewel you are and–"

"Doctor, I'm not interested in your innuendos in the slightest," she cut him off sternly. Her voice rang loudly, leaving him a distinct impression she'd slapped him. "Are you a doctor, or aren't you? I'm telling you, there's a life at stake here."

"Why?" he asked with sudden calmness. "Because he's changed his diet? If Spock were here, he'd be ranting already about Vulcan physiology that allows him to go without food or sleep for days."

"No, it's not that. Doctor," she looked at him fixedly. "I need you to listen very carefully to what I say right now. You will not interrupt me until I'm finished. And if afterwards you wish to tell me that I'm crazy, go right ahead."

"That son of a bitch has indeed corrupted you," McCoy grumbled. "All right, I'm listening."

She continued to glare at him for some time, before glancing away and sighing. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and completely controlled.

"When I was nine years old, my mother and I visited my... aunt Amanda on Vulcan. We stayed for about two months. It was my first off-world excursion and first close contact with an alien culture. It's a funny thing, actually, humans often feel intimidated by Vulcans, and Sarek is probably the most intimidating Vulcan I have ever known. Yet I was never scared of him. For some reason, it was not difficult for me to control my impulses in his presence, and I think he liked that.

"Anyway, once Aunt Amanda and my mom went away for a couple of days, leaving just the two of us in the house. Sarek preferred to have me constantly under surveillance. I was still a human child, unpredictable by definition. I suppose he was expecting some misbehavior at any moment. So we spent most of the hours in the same room, neither of us particularly happy about it.

"A visitor came late in the evening, requesting to speak with him. He glanced at me, clearly not wishing to have a witness to a private conversation. Sarek looked at me, too, and I could tell he didn't trust me out of his sight. I had just knocked over one of his precious Argelian vases, when he went out for a moment. So he told his guest I didn't understand Vulcan speech, therefore, did not present a problem. He did not know that I have been taking lessons ever since my mom had first told me we were going there.

"The guest accepted his word, and I sat quietly, minding my own business as best I could," she paused as if collecting her thoughts. McCoy was staring unseeingly in front of him with a blank expression on his face. There was no way of knowing if he was even listening. Keeping her exasperation in check, Quaint went on.

"He looked young, you know. That Vulcan. But there was something about him... I don't know. Some profound grimness. Some... air of doom. I don't know. Might have been child's imagination.

"He said, 'I have decided to proceed with the L'Dann.'

Sarek regarded him carefully, then said, 'It is regrettable, but if this seems logical to you, it is to be.'

'It does,' the guest said. 'The only way. But I am weak, Sarek. I cannot take the proper leave of my mother as the ritual requires. I have come to ask you to take a great burden. I would consider it a highest service you could render me, for which I shall be grateful beyond the boundaries of my existence. Can you take my leave of my mother for me?'

Sarek was watching him ever so carefully, and I suddenly felt I was cold. But I couldn't show I understood their speech.

'I shall consider it a great honor,' Sarek had said.

"The next day, I found out that Vulcan was dead. He killed himself. Turned out he had suffered some loss he couldn't cope with."

McCoy glanced at her darkly, but said nothing. She shrugged.

"I made some research some years later. The L'Dann is a ritual for those Vulcans who find it logical to terminate their existence. It is frowned upon, but recognized as an inherent right, nonetheless. I never understood how they could–" she shook her head and fell silent for a few moments. McCoy continued to watch her.

"Doctor, last night Spock came to my cabin. He woke me up," she glanced at him meaningfully as if trying to impress how unusual it was for Spock to interrupt anyone's rest in this manner. "He said he wanted to acknowledge my services to the ship. Then, he said verbatim, 'I have come to ask for a favor, Jessica. If it does not create a crucial delay to your mission, I would appreciate it if you made the time to take proper leave of Lady Amanda.'

"I just - sat in my bed, staring at him. He knew perfectly well I wasn't planning on saying good-bye even to my own mother, much less to anyone else. Yet, he woke me in the middle of the night to ask me this. He called me by my name – and he hasn't done that since I was twelve. And then he said something else. He said, 'It is not necessary for you to go to Vulcan, but if you do, you will be rendering me a great service. Something, for which I will be grateful beyond the boundaries of my very existence.' And then he left before I could respond."

She took a deep breath before continuing.

"We will be reaching the Starbase in two days. My ship is to leave almost at once, they are just waiting for me there. Evidently, the Captain believes that by that time I will have something to say to his mother."

Heavy silence enveloped the gloomy room again. McCoy stood up suddenly, the brisk motion startling Quaint, and walked around his desk towards a tubby cabinet, not looking at her. Without uttering one word, he opened a box with medical supplies and rummaged through it. Picked up a hypo, glanced at it carefully and put it back. Picked another one, made a subtle adjustment and pressed it resolutely to his wrist.

It was, Quaint thought, as if he suddenly became another person: cool, professional, and – with a little help, very, very sober. He was slipping back into a person she could rely on, a person, she had sought out for help.

"Where is he now?" McCoy asked. There was nothing of his 'ol' country doctor' routine in his voice.

"On the Bridge," Jessica said. "I asked Uhura to page me when he's left."

"Good thinking."

"Then, you don't think I'm crazy?"

McCoy finally turned to look at her.

"Of course not, Jess," he folded his arms across his chest, regarding her thoughtfully. "But let's keep our heads cool, okay? I don't want to appear insensitive, but are you sure you didn't read more to it than was there? Spock and suicide don't quite match up in my mind."

"Nor in mine," she sighed.

"I mean, for one thing, it's totally illogical."

"That depends on what kind of logic you're implying," she objected. Her gaze became piercing as she met his eyes. "How deep do you think his relationship with Jim Kirk ran?"

"They were friends," McCoy said at once, his voice mildly tense.

Quaint smiled faintly at his instinctive protectiveness.

"I meant no offence, Doctor," she paused, her smile fading. "You say this so easily now, but we shouldn't forget that Spock is a Vulcan. Friendship is not a highly recognized concept there."

"Nevertheless, they were friends. You usually have to torture Spock to get it out of him, but in the end even he admits it."

She gave a gentle shake of her head.

"I don't deny it, Doctor. But I don't believe any of us have true appreciation of what Captain Kirk meant to him. I can't come close to imagining what he must be feeling. Being betrayed and being forced to betray..."

McCoy shrugged, somewhat impatiently.

"What happened hit all of us pretty hard, Jess. To discover that we'd been all sold out by a man who had our implicit trust is no small thing. And Spock... might not exactly be suited to face this kind of challenge, I give you that. It's a hell lot of work to deal with your emotions when you're too busy denying their existence. But suicide?"

She shrugged awkwardly, doubts and embarrassment fighting for dominance.

"He's been acting strangely, that's all I know," she said. "And those words... Why would Spock suddenly ask that of me? In all the five and a half years, he had never gotten this personal with me. Why now?"

"A million reasons," McCoy tried to keep his voice light, but he knew he wasn't very convincing. The more he listened to her, the more apprehensive he became. He gave up on the pretence. "You said Uhura's supposed to page you?"

"Yes."

"Do me a favor, Lieutenant, page me when she pages you," he said.

She closed her eyes in relief. "Of course."

"And Jess, about my remark earlier," he glanced away for a moment, his cheeks regaining some of their color due to embarrassment.

"What remark, Doctor?"

He locked gazes with her. "About you and Spock. I'm truly sorry. It was inappropriate, I was drunk and–"

"Don't worry about it," she shook her head dismissively. "None of us is feeling exactly sober now, are we? Have you heard of a brawl in the mess today? Of what happened on the Bridge? Mr. Scott actually had to call in security."

"Spock wasn't there?"

She pursed her lips in negation. "No. It's a miracle nobody managed to blow us into space so far."

McCoy frowned. "I should have known it would happen. Should have been there."

"Nobody blames you, Doctor," Quaint said softly. "Captain Kirk was a close friend of yours. Naturally you are upset."

"Oh yeah," he grimaced sarcastically. "And while I'm 'upset' and Spock's even more upset, this crew is going straight down to hell. I swear to God, if it wasn't for Scotty, we'd be there already. It's not what Jim... our Jim would have wanted."

"Doctor–"

"No, Jess, enough's enough. I'll make that pointy-eared hobgoblin see reason if that is the last thing I do. Vulcans and their rituals," his features creased in disgust. "Blasted hypocrisy, that's what it is," He looked at her, blue eyes glinting with some of their former fervor. "Page me."

She nodded to his retreating back, almost swaying with relief. If anyone could get through to Spock, it was his ever present human nemesis. She trusted the Doctor where she didn't trust herself. It was all she could do, now that she'd warned him. Wait.

--

Jim Kirk stared at the viewscreen of a Starfleet Security shuttle. The sight currently represented on it had been the only so far discovered true love of his life, and it was steadily shrinking in size, placing a numb stab in his heart each time the image got smaller. The _Enterprise_. His ship. Was his ship. For how long had he been in command of this magnificent glory? Two years? Merely two years... He'd once known a girl whose preference for a particular pair of shoes lasted longer than that.

Kirk bit his lip hard, preventing a sardonic grin from spreading across his face. That was hardly the time for belated self-irony.

He was sitting uncomfortably in a chair, with his hands chained behind his back. He did not expect overly polite attitude, and the way the Security officers treated him certainly wasn't that. The fact that they had come to remove him from the _Enterprise_ in the middle of the night was somewhat surprising. He expected to be demonstrated at the Starbase, paraded like a captured trophy. Behold Kirk the Traitor. Beware of the example, young Starfleet officers. He almost sighed. Apparently, the Command had other plans.

"So, why did you do it?"

Kirk turned his head toward the speaker automatically. There were only two other occupants in the shuttle with him: a middle-aged Security Lieutenant and a young wolfish looking guard. It was the latter who spoke to him. The Lieutenant was busy piloting the shuttle.

"Did what?"

"Betrayed your Motherland."

The Lieutenant turned to look at them, scowling.

"Leave him alone, McClain. We're not supposed to talk with him."

"I want to know why he did it," McLain said stubbornly. "All through my childhood, I've been hearing 'A starship captain is a man of his word.' 'A starship captain is brave and honest.' 'A starship captain is a man and a half.' And now look at this scum," he nodded towards Kirk in disgust. "First Garth, now him. What was my mother doing telling me all this crap about starship captains, anyway?"

"She probably hoped to make you behave," the Lieutenant answered somewhat absently, studying his panel. "You know, by example."

The guard snorted. "Oh yes, a fine example," he looked at the prisoner again. "So why did you do it, Kirk? Money? Must have been some bunch."

Very deliberately, Kirk allowed the mean challenge to show in his eyes. "Why do you care? Think you can top my price?"

His head snapped backwards, as a tight fist punched him right in the mouth. Strangely, the pain brought a relief. No, he realized suddenly, watching red circles splash before his eyes. Not relief, pleasure. He felt warm blood filling his mouth, his neck screaming in protest at the smart blow, his eyes almost exploding in their sockets – and he enjoyed it. He felt like a drug addict craving for more. He provoked that man on purpose. He was willing to do it again.

"Hey!" a sharp voice assaulted his ears. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I won't have this piece of slime insult me, Mr. Zaba!" the guard exclaimed indignantly.

"I told you, you're not supposed to talk with him!" the Lieutenant snapped. "Get over there, run a diagnostic on the sensor array."

"But nothing's wrong with the damn thing–"

"That was an order, Mister."

McLain looked anything but pleased. "Yes, sir."

The Lieutenant waited till he moved away, glared at Kirk for a moment longer and resumed his station.

Kirk caught his breath. What was happening to him? The Lieutenant did the right thing, yet he almost regretted it. He had never known himself to be masochistic before. He glanced over at the angry man, executing senseless task at the backup station. He knew the type. Ambitious, but not talented in anything. Applied for Command School, failed. Applied for every major department then, couldn't get enough scores anywhere. Finally joined Security, but was not making good progress there, either. He had none of Giotto's tactical abilities or his sense of danger, no hunting instincts that make a good security guard an exceptional one. He was average and ill-tempered. And Kirk would not recommend to ever give him responsibility over anything of any importance.

A wry grin creased his lips, bringing a sharp surge of pain with it. There was probably not a single person in the universe who'd care to listen to his recommendations right now. He glanced at the viewscreen that no longer showed the _Enterprise_, only the familiar vista of stars sliding slowly away.

"I'm thirsty," he said suddenly.

"Isn't that unfortunate for you?" McLain grunted.

Lieutenant Zaba peered at Kirk thoughtfully, his expression one of mild disdain. "Give him some water," he ordered briskly.

The guard stood up reluctantly and poured a glass of water. He approached the prisoner and met his eyes in revulsion. Suddenly, he spilled the water in Kirk's face and laughed, as Kirk blinked and ran his tongue around his lips trying to catch some drops. McLain sneered.

"Look at you," he intoned, his fingers grabbed Kirk's chin brutally, lifting his face up. "Starfleet finest." He bent low, his face in mere inches from his victim. "If only I could have my way with you," he hissed, "you'd be arriving to your court-martial in a wheelchair. Or maybe not at all."

"Yes, you like doing that, don't you?" Kirk said, staring into the narrow black eyes. "You love causing pain to those who can't fight back."

This time, the blow was aimed at his abdomen. The pain was so intense, it nearly rendered him unconscious. When he was able to gain awareness of his surroundings again, McLain was back at his station, and Zaba was standing at his side, watching Kirk with no signs of sympathy.

"You know, Kirk, if I were you, I'd really shut up by now," he said. "If you do want to live long enough for your court-martial, that is."

His warning had little effect on the prisoner.

"Your subordinate seems to be lacking discipline," he uttered breathlessly. "No respect for your decisions."

"Well, you certainly are the expert in matters of earning respect, aren't you?" Zaba returned coolly. "Your people are so disgusted with you, they didn't even come to see you off. I expected your former second to be there, though. It's thanks to him you're apprehended. I'd love to shake his hand."

"You can't shake hands with a Vulcan," Kirk whispered, watching the Lieutenant going back to his station. "He would never have shaken your hand..."

As the image of Spock crept into his mind, he felt a wave of dizziness, and a hot searing pain burning his temples white. No, he thought desperately. No. Stop it. You have to stop. Control. _Control!_ Dammit... Slowly, grudgingly, the pain reduced to a bearable level. He was able to see again. His heart was pounding loudly in his ears.

Why now? Two attacks in the same twenty-four hours, when there hadn't been one in weeks, and both times just as he thought about Spock. First, in the _Enterprise_ brig, when he was telling McCoy to stay close to him. And now...

No. He shook his head resolutely. No. It was a coincidence. A coincidence, nothing more! It had to be. It couldn't have been anything else. He glanced over the shuttle, alert and anxious. Those two could not possibly represent that kind of threat. Could they? His gaze shifted restlessly from one to the other, assessing them with experienced eye, but he could see no signs of danger coming from either.

It was pointless, he realized suddenly. So what, even if they are the source of danger? He was chained and quite helpless. He couldn't fight and he couldn't escape. He was trapped inside this shuttle.

'_You're paranoid, Kirk,'_ he told himself, his lips twitching in a painful smirk. _'You're goddamned paranoid. Those two are dutiful Starfleet Security officers. And you're afraid of your own shadow.'_

He leaned back into his chair, trying to relax his muscles as much as the firm surface allowed. He started taking breaths in regular intervals, soothing his inflamed nerves. He bluntly refused to dwell upon the time when he had learned the technique or on his instructor. Two times a day were more than enough to his taste. He wasn't sure he wouldn't break if another attack were to come. Even if he had no proof that those two occurrences were interconnected, he was not willing to take that risk.

He closed his eyes, feeling less and less aware of his environs. In two minutes, he was fast asleep.

--

"No way, Doctor! I can't!" Uhura's fierce whisper sounded too loud to his ears. "I'm in enough trouble as it is, even by telling you he received this message!"

McCoy glanced over the Bridge nervously.

"Uhura, I need to know what they told him. Don't you understand? His life might depend on it!"

"I'd be court-martialed if I let you see that," she hissed. "So would you."

"I don't give a damn about a blasted court-martial! It's not that damn imp–"

"Excuse me," Sulu leaned over between them, as if to take a look at Uhura's console, startling them both. "If you two don't break it up, people will start to get ideas."

With a meaningful glance, he resumed his would be inspection of the Bridge.

"Come with me," McCoy snatched her arm and practically dragged her out of her chair.

"Doctor!" she yelled in protest. Then, catching a bewildered glance from Lieutenant DeSalle, currently occupying the central seat, she squeaked, "Sir? Permission to leave the Bridge?"

His face reflected some of his amusement. "Doesn't look like you have a choice, Lieutenant. Granted."

"Thank you!" she cried as the turbolift doors swished shut. "Let me go!" she rounded on McCoy angrily. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Trying to save lives, dammit!" he slammed his fist into the wall. "Good grief, Uhura! Did I ever ask you to do something like that before? You think I'm being privy or something?"

"Doctor, I can't."

"Dammit, if anything comes out I'll take full responsibility!"

"It's not that," she shook her head defiantly. "I spoke with Jess too, remember? I can't show you the message because it has been deleted from my console the moment I redirected it to the Briefing Room as Mr. Spock – I mean the Captain asked."

"And there's no way of retrieving it?" McCoy asked, as they exited the lift and walked into the said Briefing Room, currently empty.

"Any messages from Starfleet Intelligence are to be processed and relogged within eight hours and the original conversation is to be erased," she explained, frowning. "But I don't think..."

She fell silent, evidently deep in thought, and McCoy prompted impatiently, "You don't think – what?"

"Maybe there's a way," Uhura said, looking pensive. "This computer," she pointed at the working station in the middle of the table, "As every other station on the ship, it makes an automated recording of every conversation. Every twelve hours its memory is cleaned."

"Then, there's no hope," the Doctor sighed in defeat. "It's been almost a twenty-four since then…"

"Yeah, but you know what?" her eyes suddenly glinted. "With all the commotion yesterday, the maintenance crew might not have been here yet. Half of them were in the brig, anyway, and–"

"–and the other half in Sick Bay," McCoy finished for her. "You think its memory might still be intact?"

"Let's see," she moved towards the console and input several commands, then nodded. "It hasn't been cleaned yet."

"Great!" he exclaimed empathically. "Let's see this message then."

She shook her head, "It's not that easy. The automated records are not normal files, they are merely technical backups. All the conversations recorded here are intermixed and scrambled. I can't make heads or tails of them."

McCoy exhaled in frustration.

"I suppose it'll take an A-7 computer expert to make any sense of this," he said bitterly.

Uhura glanced up at him, suddenly hopeful. "Scotty could do it."

"What? I thought Scotty was an engineer, not a computer magician."

"Remember my last birthday?" she asked. "I knew Chekov and Sulu were planning a prank on me, and made some order with _Galactic Gift Service_."

"When they'd given you an Ermin Violin?"

"Yes. It took me half my salary to get rid of it, so the next year I wanted to be ready in advance. I knew they'd made another order, but couldn't find out what it was. Scotty took pity of me, and managed to clean enough of their conversation to give me a general idea," she pointed at the computer, evil grin playing on her lips. "Oh, they wouldn't know what hit them."

McCoy looked at her in pure delight. "Call him in here, will you? I'll stay so that that maintenance crew wouldn't get any ideas."

"Will do," Uhura smiled at him. "I'll be on the Bridge if you need me."

--

"_Ye want me to do what?_" Scotty exclaimed incensed. "Are ye outta yer mind, Doctor? It's classified command orders, captain's eyes only, and I'm no bloody hacker!"

"But, Scotty, can't you see it's important? The Captain's life might be in danger!"

"What are ye talking about?" the Engineer demanded indignantly, hands on his hips, eyes narrowed.

"He's not himself, he's acting bizarrely – we've gotta find out what was in that message before he does something stupid!"

"Ye're raving," Scotty said. "I've talked with the Captain today, and there's not a bloody thing wrong with him! I don't have time for this, McCoy!"

He turned on his heels and started for the doors.

"Computer, lock door on my voice command," McCoy said swiftly.

"_Enabled."_

Scott turned to look at him, his expression almost amused. "Doctor, ye're really unwell, aren't ye? I'm second in command of this ship. Do ye think ye can lock me up in a room?" he touched the panel lightly. "Computer, command override, Chief Engineer Scott here."

"_Enabled."_

Scotty grinned in satisfaction. McCoy, however, was far from giving up.

"Computer, this is Chief Medical Officer. I'm relieving Commander Scott of active duty as of this moment for medical reasons – until further notice."

"_Acknowledged."_

The doors remained closed.

Slowly, so very slowly, Scotty turned to face the Doctor again, and his face was formidable.

"What d'ye think ye're doing? There's nothing wrong with me!"

"I want you to hear me out."

"Oh ye do, do ye?" Scotty started to advance on him menacingly. "Let's see how long it'll take for the Captain to see yer order and bite yer head off for abuse of authority."

"The Captain is in no condition to bite anyone's head off, that's what I'm trying to tell you!"

"I'm reporting this, Doctor, make no mistake."

"Report all you want, just listen to me!" McCoy exploded. "You've gotta hear me out before it's too late."

"All right, I'll listen," Scotty agreed, still glaring at him. "That'd better be good."

Stammering, McCoy told him quickly about Quaint's suspicions. Scott listened, frowning, but looked unconvinced and still very angry. When the Doctor finished, he smirked disbelievingly.

"Ye've got it bad, lad," he said almost pityingly. "She's a fine lass, brainy and all, but she's, well, _enamored_ with him, ain't she? Of course she's worried, but that's no reason–"

"Dammit, Scotty!" McCoy felt his own anger flaring. "Would you say I'm enamored with him, too?"

The Engineer looked distinctly alarmed at the idea, and shook his head quickly. "No."

"Thank you," McCoy said acidly. "I kept tabs on him throughout the day. He's been wrapping everything up. He asked for full reports from all the department heads, not just from this last voyage – from the beginning of the five-year mission. I'm sure you've seen the request too. I don't think my report on how Lieutenant Sulu got a bad case of shore leave fourteen months ago would be extremely helpful during this debriefing, do you?" Scott just stared at him, frowning. "He asked you to be fully briefed on all the sector security reports, strategic layouts, and the Command's orders, didn't he?"

"How do ye know?"

"Didn't he?"

"Aye. But what's that got to–"

"This level of awareness is captain's level, Scotty. Care to elaborate why he's making sure you're ready to take command?"

"I dinna–"

"Oh, and one other thing. It occurred to me to check personal vaults' status with Security," his tone was deliberately flat. "It just so happens that the Captain has accessed his vault today. He hasn't done that in all his years of service on the _Enterprise_. I wonder what made him do that."

Scott looked at him fixedly for several long seconds, then sighed and glanced away. McCoy took a deep breath, feeling he'd won.

"Well, all right, Doctor. But if Mr. Spock finds out we've been tampering with his orders..."

"Bless you, Scotty," McCoy grinned, as the Engineer sat down at the console and started to work his way through the haze of garbled bites of information. "You know what occurs to me?"

"What?"

"Mutiny might be a contagious virus."

Scott looked up at him, his eyes glinting, amusement surfacing through the rind of anger.

"Shoudda thought about that before relieving me off duty, shouldn't ye?" He grumbled. "I still think ye all off yer rocker. That Vulcan is tougher than that."

"Hm, maybe," McCoy shrugged thoughtfully. "He's changed, you know. Of course, I haven't been here eleven years ago, but I bet it's been some leap. If I met him the way he is today two years ago, I wouldn't believe he's the same person. Remember how he used to be always apart from the rest of us? Always keeping his distance. Jim used to –" he stumbled over the name, then continued resolutely, "used to corner him deliberately just to see his reaction. It wasn't nice, actually, but it was funny to watch. At first, Spock backed away as far as his respect for his commanding officer would allow. I swear to God, sometimes he was ready to literary climb the walls," he smiled reminiscently. "But then, that's changed, hasn't it? He's changed. And Jim–"

"Doctor," Scott interrupted him, shifting somewhat awkwardly in his seat. He wasn't sure he should be part of this conversation. It was rapidly turning too personal for him to feel comfortable. "I think I got something. It's pretty garbled, but it's the best I can do."

"Scotty, you're a miracle worker!" McCoy fell into a chair next to him.

"Nah," the Engineer waved his words off dismissively. "It's nothing a good tech couldn't do, though ye'll have to know that it's doable."

The screen showed somewhat distorted, but recognizable image of Admiral Lewton. Scott and McCoy shared a worried glance and listened carefully.

"…_I don't know if I should congratulate or reprimand you, Spock. No, I'll probably leave that to Cartwright. He's furious with you, you know that? He thinks you failed as first officer to keep your captain on track."_

_Spock's voice sounded off screen. _

"_Then, I can see no logic in him making me captain of the _Enterprise_."_

"_Didn't have anyone better for the job__ in the sector, did he? Come to think of it, as a person you failed, too."_

"_I do not understand, Admiral."_

"_Oh, it's really very simple. For a human, anyway. Why do you think we need friends, Spock? So that they would make sure nothing bad happened to us. A friend is someone who's supposed to steer you back on course when you're lost. Not only you didn't do that, you didn't even know there was trouble."_

"_That is correct__."_

"_Don't take it to heart, Captain. __Failing someone's trust is not a court-martial offence. Oh, my apologies. You don't take anything to heart, I forgot. Sometimes you're acting so much like a human, Spock, it's hard to remember you're a Vulcan."_

"_I shall endeavor to correct that __disfunction."_

"_You know, you shouldn't really waste time on relationships, Spock. I can tell you from personal experience, Vulcans are proficient in many areas, but this one eludes them. Don't waste your energy, Captain. It can be better employed."_

"_Admiral, do you have a suggestion to make?"_

"_I do, as a matter of fact. Spock, let's face it, you're not built up to be a starship captain. You don't have it in you. __And to send you on another mission under another cocky captain is going to be a waste of your talents."_

"_Talents, Admiral?"_

"_Spock__, I'm most impressed with the way you handled this incident. And your previous achievements are equally impressive. Drop that blasted starship commission. Come work for me."_

"_Admiral–"_

"_Think about it__, Spock. We'll give you every opportunity to use that magnificent brain of yours. Starship duty can never do that. And you will no longer have to deal with human irrationality on this scale. No more 'friends' asking something of you that you can't give. Think about it, before you're killed in another stupid fight."_

"_Admiral, I am not ungrateful for your offer, however–"_

"_Think about it, Spock. I'll talk to you later. Lewton out."_

The two men stared at the blank screen silently. Finally Scotty reached out and punched several buttons.

"I am erasing this now," he declared determinedly. McCoy didn't answer. "Doctor? Are ye all right?"

McCoy nodded slowly, then cleared his throat.

"You know I never liked him," he said almost absently. "But right now I want to find that bastard and to break his blasted neck."

"Aye," Scotty frowned, watching him warily. "Can't say it's a bad idea. But ye might want to do something before that."

"What's that?"

"Return me to active duty."

"Oh yes," McCoy smiled sheepishly. "Sorry about that."

Scotty sighed. "Just – don't do that again."

He walked away through the once again obedient doors, leaving a deeply troubled Doctor staring unseeingly after him.

'_God, Spock, what do I do now?__'_ McCoy thought in desperation. _'If I'm wrong about this, you'll never let me live this down. If I'm right... Please, Lord. Don't let me be right about this. Just this once, don't let me be right.'_


	14. A Change Of Plans

**A/N: **Dear all, I'm very sorry it took me so long to update. I suppose it should be a lesson to me – never strive for perfection I can't get anyway by definition. :-) I was ready to post it last week, but wanted to clean it up a little. Instead, I got sent to a lousy business trip, and only got back, having done nothing useful for an eternity. And I realize that is not as much as expected, but I do promise to make the next update relatively quick.

I want to thank you all again for the wonderful and highly useful feedback. I'm afraid it doesn't change the way I see the story, but it means a great deal to me, I find your comments invaluable. Forgive me for standing my ground, for now anyway. Let's see where it gets us. ;-)

--

**Chapter 13**

**A Change of Plans**

Doesn't anyone throw on the lights around here any more? McCoy thought grumpily as he strode into his office, drowning in the gloom of the late night. He could turn the lights on full force, of course, but he didn't feel like doing it. Boy, he was tired. He hadn't had any sleep in what felt like days, and was painfully aware of how crusty his body was. He needed rest, and was afraid to have some. He leaned on his desk heavily, his eyes closing for a moment on their own volition.

"Good evening, Doctor."

McCoy jumped, whirling at the spot.

"Spock!"

The Vulcan was sitting in the chair at the door, his posture, if anything, relaxed.

"You scared the hell outta me," McCoy stammered, exhaling loudly. "Were you there the whole time?"

"Indeed. I will assume that it is your excessive fatigue that made you fail to notice my presence earlier."

"Or maybe it's your sneaky nature. You move like a damn cat, Spock, never making a sound. It's creepy."

"I take it you don't like cats very much, Doctor?"

"I like cats fine, but I don't appreciate being ambushed in my own office," he frowned, suddenly realizing that he was expressing anger when in fact he was feeling relief. He'd been trying to locate the Vulcan for the better part of the evening without success. He could hardly admit as much, without alerting Spock to what he had been up to, so he summoned his best professional tone and asked boldly, "What can I do for you, Captain?"

To his surprise, Spock shifted slowly, crossing his outstretched legs and steepling his fingers lightly. The similarity to a cat stretching lamely on a sunlit porch became so striking, McCoy barely refrained from cursing. He had never seen the Vulcan so relaxed, and for some reason it unnerved him.

"Doctor, I seek enlightenment to a certain personal predicament."

"Oh?" McCoy felt his heart give a leap. "What sort of personal predicament?"

"It is a problem that I have never encountered before while serving on a starship. Certainly not on the _Enterprise_."

"Care to specify?"

"Indeed," the Vulcan met his gaze steadily, and McCoy felt suddenly very, very nervous. It was not just a cat Spock reminded him of in his current mode, he realized. There was something so blatantly predatory about this would be relaxed posture, accompanied by the cold calculating look in those hooded impenetrable eyes. He felt himself on the spot, without knowing what his crime was.

"I have recently found that several items, personal possessions of mine, disappeared from my quarters."

McCoy stared at him, barely preventing his jaw from dropping. Whatever speculations had run through his mind a moment ago, they were nowhere close to this. Was it possible he misheard?

"Come again?"

"Several personal possessions of mine disappeared from–"

"Yes, I heard you the first time," the Doctor cut him off, his heart starting to pound. Thank God, he didn't turn the lights on in full. Maybe his flush would go unnoticed. "Disappeared how?"

"I do not know. However, since our recent internal scans showed no unusual activity, it is logical to assume that the disappearance happened with the assistance of someone on board."

McCoy frowned. "You know, Spock, someday your life might depend on the ability to speak plainly, and that day, I promise you, will be your undoing. You mean somebody stole them?"

"I am uncertain, however, it does seem a reasonable conclusion. I do not normally lock my door."

"And I always told you it's calling for trouble. Why didn't you alert Security?"

"What makes you think I did not?"

Startled, McCoy choked, realizing a moment too late he fell for a provocation. Spock's eyes never left his face.

"Well... What were those items anyway?"

"A curious question, Doctor. They are too many to name them all, however, they do have one characteristic in common," he paused with torturing deliberation. "They are all sharp objects."

"Really?" McCoy could barely recognize his own voice.

"Yes," Spock intoned almost casually. "I believe there is a medical condition hereditary to your species, which could be responsible for this unusual incident. It is called kleptomania, if I am not mistaken. It is said that the individual affected by it is not entirely responsible for his actions. Am I in error?"

The Doctor could only watch him, unable to utter a sound. Spock frowned, the air of deep concern clouding his features.

"I must admit, Doctor, I find this sort of interference in my personal affairs to be extremely disturbing. I had harbored... certain plans, involving those items," he stood up then, making several steps towards the dazed human. "I am aware that most humans find Vulcan rituals to be... obsolete, however, I can see no possible justification for preventing me from–"

"Committing suicide?" McCoy blurted out, unable to control his anxiety any longer. Once the word was out of his mouth, no restraints seem to be left in him whatsoever. He couldn't extinguish a note of accusation from his tone. "Tell me, Spock, would you really have the guts to go through with it? Would you really have me walk into your quarters tomorrow to find your body drifting in a pool of blood?"

Spock actually grimaced at the dramatic picture. "Doctor–"

"Oh, don't think you can fool me, Spock. I've been in this profession for too long a time. You think it's a noble thing to do, don't you? You think you're the only one hurting?"

"I did not think I was, Doctor, however–"

"No, there's no 'however,' Spock. Tell me one thing, did you stop for one second to think how your death might affect _me_?"

Spock looked at him, somewhat surprised.

"Doctor, I must admit your reaction puzzles me. The last time we spoke, you told me I was a 'heartless unfeeling son of a bitch'."

"That's right, I lost my temper. D'you know why? Because I'm an emotional human being. And as such, tell me, how do you think I would feel if I lost two of my closest friends in less than a week? What chances in your estimation, my logical friend, would I have to preserve my sanity?"

"Doctor–"

"Oh, don't give me that look, Spock. Even being this thick, you should know by now how I feel about you."

"Indeed, it is hard to stay in the dark when you use every opportunity to enlighten me on the subject."

"Spock, you can be as sarcastic as you want, and, after what I said to you, I suppose I can't really blame you, but I don't believe for one moment you don't care."

"I do," Spock said softly. "But I had no intentions of committing suicide."

McCoy stared at him, dumbstruck. Spock returned the gaze steadily, his eyes carefully veiled, yet earnest.

"You did not want to –?"

"Indeed. That would be most illogical."

It took McCoy a moment to regain his ground. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his pulse, then realized he was shaking.

"Then, when you broke into Jess' quarters and demanded of her to take a proper leave of your mother...?"

"I merely thought she would appreciate the gesture. I might also have had another motive," Spock admitted pensively. "My mother is a most persuasive person. Lieutenant Quaint is a highly valuable officer. I believe I might have had a... hope that my mother would be able to make her reconsider her decision about leaving for the Zentara system."

"Jesus, Spock," McCoy hissed, stumbling back until he could lean on his desk. "Did you really have to wake her in the middle of the night to tell her that using that blasted formal language of yours? For heaven's sake, that girl is deeply in love with you! What could you possibly be thinking scaring her to death like that? Not to mention her condition..."

Spock's face hardened, the expression in his eyes became stricken, his tone freezing.

"Doctor, I strongly advise you to keep my relationship with Lieutenant Quaint out of this conversation."

Realizing he had crossed the line, McCoy held up a hand. "I'm sorry, Spock, I meant no offence. I just... well, I was worried as hell about you," the revelation surprised him with its intensity, as if only now, when the threat was lifted, did he realize in full what kind of danger he had been facing.

"I realize that, Doctor. That is why I am reluctant to place additional charge into your record. But I would really appreciate to have my belongings back."

"Additional charge?"

"Indeed. I am currently considering charging you with organizing a conspiracy among the senior officers, unauthorized access to classified information, and serious abuse of authority, and by that I do not mean your temporary putting Mr. Scott on medical leave."

"A conspiracy?" McCoy felt his temper flaring. "You blasted Vulcan! We've been scared for your goddamned life!"

"So I surmised," Spock nodded calmly. "After I have been subjected to a number of bizarre actions on the crew's part. Nurse Chapel broke into tears in the mess, when I refused to have a meal. Mr. Chekov was even more entertaining than usual on the Bridge today, however, I had never known him to be so interested in Vulcan philosophy in general and in the highest regard we have for life in particular. Mr. Scott had spontaneously expressed his certainty in my command abilities. I do not consider myself an expert on human psychology, however, I have never known him to do any such thing before. If by encouraging them to take these actions you meant to reduce the level of stress on board, I can only say that you failed spectacularly. As a result I had to spend thirteen point four percent of my time speculating about the cause of this new disturbance. The time that could have been better spent. In addition–"

"Spock, I honestly don't know why we bothered," McCoy cut him off in exasperation. "It should have been clear as a day that you can no more willingly end your life than a computer turn itself off. I have no idea what made me think you're capable of such a human act."

Spock raised an eyebrow. "You sound almost disappointed, Doctor."

"Disappointed? God, you're incredible. Jim gone, you dead – you think that's my dream scenario?"

Spock watched him carefully, his expression enigmatic.

"Doctor, you keep psychological profiles of every member of the crew, including myself, is that correct?"

"You know it is."

Spock paused, as if weighing his options.

"I would be interested to know," he admitted nonchalantly, "what was it in my profile that allowed you to suppose such dramatic action on my part."

"Spock," McCoy sighed heavily. "I didn't examine your profile. I kind of... acted on impulse. Now, you know I'm just an illogical human being, right? I just assumed... Look, you've been under tremendous strain lately, which none of us realized. And in the past few days you've been making a lot of choices of a sort that most people don't make more than once in their lives. And you've been taking blow after blow, from each and every one of us, as we've been taking our own anger and frustration on you. I was afraid you'd go over the edge."

Spock regarded him intensely for a while, then said quietly, "That is not the real reason, Doctor."

"No, it's not," McCoy admitted. "All right, if you wish to know. You and Jim were my real reason."

The Vulcan's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Explain."

"Oh, what's to explain, Spock? He was closer to you than anyone else in your entire life. He was the only person capable of drawing emotion out of you, without you going berserk about it. I remember the look on your face, Spock, when you thought him dead and then discovered he wasn't. He was the only person you, a Vulcan, called a friend. And I've seen you risking your neck for him so many times, and risking it recklessly, illogically, if you please, that I'm thoroughly convinced he's the most dear person to you in the whole universe. And then, what he's done to you, to us all... what you've done to him... I wasn't sure you could cope with that."

"Fascinating," Spock said, his eyes still scrutinizing the human's face as if trying to verify his words. "If that is indeed your assessment of my relationship with Captain Kirk, I believe I can see the logic behind your actions."

"Are you saying your assessment is different?" McCoy asked incredulously.

Spock didn't reply, obviously deep in thought. The Doctor waited in an uncharacteristic stroke of patience. Finally, the Captain shook his head slightly.

"Doctor, I must admit I am experiencing disappointment – to a degree, of course. Have you really thought me being this... selfish? As captain of the _Enterprise_, I am responsible for 430 lives. The fact that you considered it possible for me to abandon this responsibility for purely personal reasons is regrettable."

"Spock, it's not that we thought you irresponsible," McCoy tried to explain in frustration. "It's just that..." but he couldn't articulate his thoughts any better.

Spock watched him curiously for a long moment, then shook his head.

"I should be putting your entire group of merry men on report," he said, his tone conveying amusement and mild disbelief. "However, I find that I cannot bring myself to do it. I understand that you did not want to lose a proficient officer. It is logical."

McCoy snorted.

"Have it your way, Spock. Frankly, you just scared the hell out of us, wrapping things up as if you planned on leaving for good."

"I did."

McCoy stared at him.

"What?"

Spock met his gaze calmly. "Your conclusion was wrong, Doctor, not the data collected. I planned on resigning my commission immediately after debriefing."

The Doctor could only look at him in shock.

"But, in the name of... Why?"

Spock sighed, making several steps across the room, before answering.

"Since you have... overheard my conversation with Admiral Lewton, I can speak freely. I agreed with his assessment of my command skills. Moreover, I agreed with his assessment of my personal conduct," he glanced at the Doctor sharply. "You might not be aware, but I am responsible in major part for Captain Kirk's transformation."

"Oh, of course you are, Spock, as Jim had no will of his own," McCoy noted sarcastically. "You presume too much."

"That is exactly my point, Doctor," Spock said somewhat sadly. "When Jim was concerned I presumed too much. That is of no consequence now, however. It would seem that you have fulfilled your duty as a ship's physician, though I strongly suggest that next time you refrain from jumping to conclusions and using non-regulation methods."

McCoy snorted tiredly. "Spock, if I always went by the book both you and Jim and a lot of other people would be dead right now," he shook his head, his gaze drifting towards a tubby cabinet to his left. "Have a drink with me?"

"No, thank you. I do not believe you should have one, either. It is more logical for you to get some rest."

"A sound advice coming from you," McCoy chuckled. In a moment, his expression grew serious again. "Spock, you said you wanted to resign your commission. Do you still want to?"

"No. I intend to stay on the _Enterprise_ unless Starfleet Command orders me otherwise."

"What changed your mind?"

"I believe my mind remains unchanged, Doctor. I simply... reconsidered," he looked away, and the Doctor couldn't miss it.

"Why?" he asked sharply. "Something happened, didn't it? For weeks now, you've been brooding and getting more miserable by the day, yet now you seem... changed somehow."

Spock didn't reply, and his silence spoke volumes.

"It's Jim, isn't it?" McCoy's voice fell to a bare whisper. "Spock," he paused, holding his breath. "What do you know that I don't?"

For a moment, Spock seemed almost hesitant, as if he was tempted to reveal his thoughts, to share his concerns with someone else. But the moment passed, and when he met the Doctor's gaze, a profound expression of Vulcan superiority was dominant on his face.

"Doctor, the total amount of things that I know and you don't would quite probably be enough to fill an entire section of the Federal Library. I can assure you, however," he added before McCoy could counter, "that, since you have been privy to my conversation with the Admiral, I do not have any more relevant information than you do. The difference in my interpretation of it comes from the use of logic, something you proved unable to master."

The Doctor chose to let the smug remarks fly past him without reacting. His need was too great. "Oh, come on, Spock," he pleaded. "I've been on edge for so long, it's driving me crazy. Can't you throw me a bone?"

Spock appeared to consider this, then gave a slight shake of his head.

"You require rest more than listening to speculations, Doctor, however much you enjoy engaging in this unproductive activity."

"Unproductive?" despite himself, McCoy felt an upsurge of familiar anger. "It's a human thing to do, Spock. But then, I have no idea what made me think you'd understand. I'd better take you at your suggestion and get some sleep. It's better than standing here, talking to a blasted cold-blooded Vulcan. Oh, and you know what? This color you're wearing," he nodded at Spock's gold tunic. "It looks good on you, Spock. But, you don't look like _you_ anymore, if you know what I mean."

Spock regarded him silently for a few moments, then sighed lightly.

"Doctor, I believe I cannot leave you being in error about something."

"What something would that be?"

"I am obliged to inform you that your assumption that Captain Kirk was the single person responsible for my contamination with human emotions is incorrect."

"Oh?" McCoy's eyebrows climbed up at once. "You mean to tell me that there's been another person who broke into that neutronium you call your Vulcan blood?"

"Affirmative. This person has in many ways exceeded Captain Kirk's influence on me. In this person's presence, I always have to be ready to _almost_ experience one of the most basic human emotions."

"Indeed?" McCoy's mind exploded with hypotheses. "Might one inquire who this person is?"

"One might," Spock appeared almost smug. "It's you, Doctor."

"_Me_?" the Doctor stared at him, caught off guard. "Good heavens protect me, I'm honestly afraid to ask what that emotion you _almost_ experience in my presence is."

"It is not formidable, Doctor. In fact, I have noted that it is not uncommon for my human shipmates to experience it in your presence as well. Of course, due to my Vulcan heritage, my exposure to it is gratifyingly limited–"

"Oh, for crying out loud, what emotion?"

"Irritation."

For several long seconds, McCoy simply glared at Spock, incensed. Then, he caught a glimmer in the Vulcan's eye, and suddenly laughed, feeling some of the tremendous tension inside him finally break. He felt strangely overwhelmed with warmth he had almost forgotten existed.

"Well, I'm glad to be of service," he said, impulsively resting a hand on Spock's arm. "Get some rest yourself, will you? You look like you could use some."

An eyebrow climbed up on the dispassionate face, but the Vulcan didn't pull away. "I will as soon as my duties permit me, Doctor," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Someone still has to mind the store."

McCoy's hold tightened instinctively, and he willed his fingers to relax, letting Spock go.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he whispered after the retreating Vulcan. "For all our sakes."

--

He knew at once something was terribly wrong. His head felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, and he couldn't open his eyes. Somehow through the haze of disorientation, he felt his body rolling back and forth, colliding with solid barriers – walls? – and knew that later he would most likely be covered in bruises. But none of it mattered now, if he couldn't get a grip on his senses. For a moment, he leapt up into the air; the nauseate pulling in his stomach telling him the artificial gravity was down. Just as he wondered if he could get sick while semi-conscious, the gravity snapped back on, and he fell from a considerable height, the air being knocked out of him.

The blow seemed to have done the trick. Slowly, he opened his eyes, blinking away the cobwebs. He was on board some ship. He could feel the humming of the engines, coming through the deck. But nothing around him looked familiar.

"Where am I?" he muttered hoarsely. "What's going on?"

He didn't expect an answer, he wasn't even aware he had asked the questions out loud, until a rough voice sounded from behind.

"Glad you could join us, Kirk. I'd hate it if you missed our last salute to your Federation pals."

Still on all fours, Kirk turned around to see helm and navigation stations manned by two Klingons. Neither of them looked familiar.

"Who are you?" he asked, straightening up with difficulty. "What's going on?"

"Persistent, isn't he?" the one who spoke before sneered, nudging his partner in the ribs. Then, he turned back to look at the human. "I hope you said your goodbyes. Your friends are about to enter their afterlife."

"What?" still confused, Kirk stared at the viewscreen. "What the–"

The security shuttle, the one he was on just before everything went dark for him, was whirling uncontrollably, leaving a transparent trail of plasma behind. It didn't look like anyone was in control of it.

"What do you plan to do?" Kirk asked, going paler than he already was.

"Aren't you slow for a starship captain? Destroy it, of course."

"You don't have to do this," Kirk said hastily, his eyes glued to the shuttle. "Those men have done nothing to you."

The Klingon glared at him.

"They are witnesses, human. And we don't need any witnesses."

His partner stared at him suspiciously. "You either with us, or you're not, Kirk. If not, you can join those guards, and we'll blow you up all together."

"Don't you see, it's not necessary to kill them," he said earnestly. "It'll only draw additional attention to–"

The Klingon punched a button, and Kirk could only watch helplessly, as a torpedo shot forward, zooming in on the defenseless shuttle rapidly. There was a tangible flash when it hit, and the wreckage filled the space where the whole little ship used to be. Kirk closed his eyes, trying to control his anger.

"What's the matter, Kirk?" the first Klingon was watching him with a sneer. "Didn't you say you wanted an honest relationship between our peoples? The only thing that is honest between us is war."

"We aren't at war yet," Kirk snapped. "And stupid stunts like that could end it before it begins."

"A stupid stunt?" the Klingon snarled. "I suppose we should have left you there to rot, shouldn't we?"

"Why am I here? This wasn't what we'd agreed on!"

"A change of plans, Kirk. Vorog had to move earlier. He needed you there."

Kirk felt his heart sinking and leaping back in one dizzying motion.

"Does that mean he believes me?"

Both Klingons laughed heartily at that.

"Vorog doesn't believe his own mother, human. But you can be sure, if you lie to him, your death will be most unpleasant. Now find yourself a corner back there and shut up, or I'll knock you out cold again. We need to get out of here, before the Feds show up."

Fighting back his instinctive reaction, Kirk forced himself to obey. He sat down on a bunk, a good distance away from the pilots' area, and tried to regain his balance.

Two men had just died because of him. Two innocent men. True, he couldn't say much of their attitude, but it didn't change the fact that he was the single cause of their death, whether he wanted it or not. How many were to come in similar fashion?

He gritted his teeth and shut his eyes, as if trying to avoid the impossible reality. How did he get into this mess in the first place? What cunning demon possessed him to let himself be lured into this unrealistic scheme? And now, oh brother, now the events were spinning so rapidly out of control, it seemed impossible to get back on track.

If Spock were with him now, he'd probably say that regrets were illogical. Damn him, anyway, what took him so long? He realized he was still mad as hell at his First Officer. Former First Officer, he corrected himself bitterly. Spock turned to be a bigger problem than he anticipated. The Vulcan's reluctance to take action against him had very nearly blown the whole schedule to dust. Kirk had to push him every step of the way, guiding him towards the action that must have been automatic for any loyal officer. A tricky job, not showing his hand, but Spock's resistance had made it necessary. That darned stubborn Vulcan! He turned out to be a little bit too loyal, though not towards Starfleet.

A slight variation in the engines' humming told him the ship had jumped into warp. They were off to their destination, leaving the only life he knew behind. Jim bit his lip hard to suppress a groan. Everything he'd said, everything he'd done, however painful to both of them, wasn't enough. In the end, he even had to hit him. God, he actually had to hit him...

_Spock, Spock, will you ever forgive me? Will you ever even know? _

He was being selfish, he knew it. It would be best if Spock never knew. If Bones never knew – none of them. But it was so unfair, so wrong. They were in this with him, whether they knew about it or not. He hoped that their part was over, but he couldn't be sure, not after this 'change of plans.' Damn it all to hell. He was not only being selfish, but unbelievingly careless. He shouldn't even be thinking this – there was no guarantee that it was safe.

Something stirred in the back of his mind, sending shivers throughout his body. It wasn't the formidable, menacing activity of the device he endured several times. It was more like a presence, a whisper, an intangible veil thrown over his thoughts. It felt almost like... soothing, calming. The feeling was getting weaker. Kirk shook his head violently, convinced that he was imagining things. Not surprising at all, all things considered. He was losing it and he had to act before he'd lost it completely. That was, if they were going to let him do as much.

"How long till we get there?" he asked the Klingon pilot.

"What's it to you?" the Klingon glared at him. "You might as well enjoy the ride while it lasts. I doubt there'll many enjoyable things for you when we get there."

That was a sound advice and a valid notion. Kirk closed his eyes again, willing himself to sleep. He had a distinct impression he was going to need all his strength when they reached their destination.

--


	15. The Price of Allegiance

**Chapter 14**

**The ****Price of Allegiance **

Even expected, the pain was so sharp, he cried out. He saw no point in holding back anyway. To them, he was an inferior human. To him, the release of air brought an illusion of relief. And he needed his mental strength, all that he could master, not to let anything slip. Not now.

"Why are you here?"

It was the Klingon again, the tall bold-headed Klingon, whose face was as devoid of any expression, as that of any Vulcan.

"I want to... join you..." he breathed out heavily through a mouthful of blood.

Another voice sounded, bland and insinuative, crawling inside like a blood-worm.

"James T. Kirk, Captain of the USS _Enterprise_, the pride and glory of Starfleet, wants to join a group of Klingon renegades, who call themselves the Vipers?"

Turning his head towards the sound with some difficulty, Kirk focused on the Andorian.

"They are not all... Klingons, judging by your presence," he paused, as his fingers dug instinctively into metallic restraints pinning his wrists to the table. Another pair of restraints was gluing his ankles to the chair, and there was a band around his waist, holding him upright. That was by all accounts a wise precaution. After the second hour of questioning had begun, he was having difficulty sitting straight. He suspected strongly that a couple of his ribs were already broken, and another couple dangerously close to that point. His head buzzed continuously, yet he was aware that the level of force used against him was very low. He was only tested, probed so far – the Klingon way. It was a quick research, not a thorough study. At least, until now.

The Andorian walked slowly around him, placing his hand on the bare skin of Kirk's shoulder. The lightest touch, almost a caress.

"You are correct, there are other species among us," the same sickeningly sweet voice whispered in his ear.

"There are humans here, I know," Kirk said, trying not to take notice of the cool hand working its way down his arm.

"There are," the Andorian confirmed smoothly, his hands gripping Kirk's forearm, his fingers drawing circles on the warmer skin. "Some of them are even from Starfleet. Do you know why they are here?"

Kirk's eyes were glued to the blue hand, scratching his arm, despite his intention not to pay attention.

"They are true patriots," he said.

"Oh, are they?" the antennae on the Andorian's head trembled in anticipation. His sleeve suddenly moved on its own volition, and a silvery stray of some unknown substance slid down to the human's arm. The contact made him fight not to scream, as its touch was cold to the point of burning, as if he spilled sulfuric acid on his skin.

"Say hello to my little friend here, Kirk," the Andorian intoned, with a pleasant smile on his face, lifting his hands off, leaving the parasite swivel on the soft human flesh.

"What... is... it?" Jim managed hoarsely.

"It's a genetically modified ice worm. Special breed."

"Ice... worm? What good... is breeding... ice worms?"

"Oh, they are very useful at certain times," the Andorian looked at the creature fondly. "You see, compared to layers of compressed ice, living tissue is no more challenging to them than air. This little darling is tuned to the signals I'm transmitting, and it will do anything I please. A highly useful instrument during interrogations."

"Why interrogate me?" Kirk had a nasty feeling the ice worm would not be passive for very long, though its very presence on his arm was disturbing enough. "I've come here on my own will. I'm telling the truth!"

The dark blue eyes bored into him mercilessly. "Let's find out, shall we?"

An antenna on the Andorian's head moved, and the worm dug into Kirk's skin hungrily. The pain was searing, as if his arm was suddenly drowned in liquid lead. He wasn't sure if he cried out or not, his insides were screaming if not his throat, every time the creature moved.

"And now, Kirk, let's talk about why you are here," the Andorian murmured lamely.

"I told you why I'm here!" he yelled, twisting in his restraints. "I want to join you!"

"Why?" the question was accompanied with yet another jerk of the antenna, and the worm inside his arm drilled deeper into the muscles, slicing tissue and burning its path around the bones.

"God..!" the restraints were rapidly turning red with his blood, as Kirk whirled and squirmed in agony. "I – want – that – war!"

"Why?"

"It's better than... better than you spying on us!.. Infiltrating... Starfleet without our knowledge!... This way we know – who the... enemy is!"

"As our Vulcan friends would say, logical," the Andorian mused. "Still, I need to be certain."

He willed his antenna to move again, and Kirk thought his arm exploded, as the parasite inside him started to whirl rapidly around his arm bones, leaving furrows, destroying living tissue, making him almost frantic with unbearable pain. He could no longer see anything; the vessels on his neck and face blowing huge with boiling blood, the restraints cutting his body without him noticing.

"I want that war, you bastard!" he shouted, unable to control the overwhelming agony. "I want to – join you! ... I... want to ..."

For several ensuing seconds, nothing existed for him, but the crushing pain in his arm. Then, he felt the worm moving back to the surface, the pain unimaginably growing even worse.

"You know what," the Andorian said softly, collecting his pet, "I believe you."

Slowly regaining the awareness of his surroundings, Kirk blinked forcibly to clear his vision, his breathing still fast and shaggy. Just as he was able to formulate a coherent thought in his mind, the Andorian suddenly made a sharp lunge, crushing his firmly clasped hand over Kirk's mutilated arm, breaking it. The human yelled loudly, unprepared for the attack; his body once again threw itself against the restraints and then went limp, as he lost consciousness.

The Andorian stared at him for several moments without any particular expression on his face, then nodded to his Klingon accomplice.

"Clean him up. When he's patched, bring him to Vorog."

"You think he's telling the truth?" the Klingon asked dubiously.

The Andorian met his gaze steadily, making him extremely uncomfortable.

"He'd better. My friend here," he patted his sleeve, "is not the only one who needs feeding."

He left the room without further delay, and the Klingon leaned over the unconscious human, not bothering to hide his shiver.

--

"Sick Bay! Medical emergency!"

"McCoy here," the Doctor's voice was sharp, despite the fact that the exploding intercom had woken him from a deep, albeit uncomfortable swoon. "Is that you, Renseb? What happened?"

There was a slight pause in the Lieutenant's reply, filled with some unidentifiable sound.

"It's Ensign Tanna, sir. I'm in his quarters. We were supposed to supervise a project together in the lab, and he didn't show up. He's unconscious, but alive... I think. He's bleeding from the ears."

"I'm on my way. McCoy out."

He gathered Christine with his gaze, and together they rushed out of Sick Bay. One of these days, the Doctor mused grumpily, they were going to teach _all_ Starfleet personnel to be as specific in reporting the injuries as in causing them. 'Alive... I think,' honestly...

Christine caught his elbow and tugged him back, when he rushed past the right turn. McCoy felt an irrational upsurge of anger as the touch reminded him of her presence. They were late in the Beta-Shift, yet he couldn't convince her to go off duty. She became rather vocal about him staying on his feet for more than twenty-four hours himself, hanging onto stimulants, and it didn't make him feel any better.

A guard, stationed at the entrance to the Ensign's quarters, flattened himself against the wall, clearing the way, as McCoy and Chapel brushed past him. Ensign Tanna was lying on the floor, his head seemingly swaying in a pool of blood, which came from his ears and neck, where the vessels were engorged and torn by unendurable pressure.

"I wasn't sure if I should move him, Doc," Renseb hastened to explain. "I thought I'd better check with you first."

"You did the right thing," McCoy muttered almost absently, running his scanner over the unconscious Ensign. "Heartbeat erratic, blood-pressure off the scale, temperature climbing..."

"Is he going to be all right, Doctor?" Renseb asked, concern for his friend washing out any color from his face.

"Maybe, if I understand what's wrong with him," McCoy snapped, pressing hypo against Tanna's shoulder. "Call in for a gurney, Nurse. I want him in Sick Bay as soon as possible."

"Yes, Doctor."

But, before she made so much as a step towards the com, a series of violent seizures ran through Tanna's body.

"Hold him!" McCoy yelled, as he, Renseb and Chapel all tried to steel the agitated body to very little avail.

"Doctor he's going white!" Chapel shrieked in panic, her medical instincts telling her that the sign was ominous.

"He can't breathe," McCoy muttered, adjusting the hypo. But, even as he pressed it to the Ensign's neck, he knew he was too late. Tanna grew very still, his body virtually turning to stone in front of their eyes. Both Renseb and Chapel let go of him, and McCoy took another scan. "He's gone," he said, stunned by the rapidity of what had happened. "We lost him."

"No," Renseb's eyes were filling with tears. "Are you sure you can't do anything to help him, Doctor?"

Chapel placed a consoling hand on his shoulder, but McCoy suddenly felt repulsed, though by the Lieutenant's reaction or his own helplessness he couldn't tell. He shook his head, not trusting his voice.

"I'll call the team in," Chapel said, coming to her feet. "Mir, do you need anything? A sedative to help you sleep, maybe?"

Renseb shook his head, his eyes carefully averted. Reluctantly, McCoy rose up as well.

"I'll inform the Captain," he said. "Lieutenant, perhaps it'll be best if you return to your quarters."

The night seemed to stretch eternally, making McCoy wish he was made of some more enduring material than weak human flesh.

"Report, Doctor," he heard from behind and gritted his teeth in a bold attempt to control his fatigue-born annoyance.

"I don't know, Spock," he admitted tiredly. "That was not a natural death, that much is certain."

The Captain watched him patiently, standing in the semi-darkness, hands customarily clasped behind his back.

"Doctor, you have conducted a post-mortem," he reminded McCoy calmly. "You must have come to _some_ conclusions."

"Well, maybe I must have, but I haven't. Something made his blood pressure increase two hundred percent. Beats me what might have caused it. Eventually it resulted in cardiac arrest. The vessels all across his body simply exploded. As if his body believed it was boiling up from inside."

"Interesting. Did his brain show any evidence of being under external influence?"

"Dammit, Spock," McCoy nearly spat in frustration. "His brain is a bloody mess. From what my scanner tells me, his synaptic pathways are all mixed up, distorted, it's a goddamned maze, and it all happened to him in an instant. I don't have a slightest idea of what might produce such an effect. And it bugs me like hell, because I have a feeling like I _should_ know."

"That is a most illogical notion, Doctor."

"Do you really think that's what I want to hear right now?" McCoy whirled at him angrily. "Holy hell, Spock! I've just lost a patient! You lost a crewmember! Jim would never be as cold, as barren, as unsympathetic! He–" he cut himself short, glancing at the Vulcan quickly in order to ascertain the damage. Spock appeared unperturbed. McCoy sighed. "I'm sorry, Spock. I guess with all that's going around lately, I'm being more illogical than usual."

Spock's eyebrow crept up. "That would be theoretically impossible."

McCoy was obviously too tired to rise for the bait. He was staring at the scan of Tanna's brain transfixed, muttering under his breath. Spock watched him with a critical eye for a moment.

"Perhaps you should let Doctor M'Benga take over," he said. "You require a period of rest."

"So do you," McCoy snapped absently.

"Really, Doctor, my Vulcan physiology–"

"Vulcan!" McCoy exclaimed excitedly. "That's it, that's just it!"

Spock lifted a quizzical eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

But the Doctor was already rummaging through his record tapes, pulling one box after another, until he apparently had located the tape he was looking for. In his haste to see its contents, he had to make a double take to insert it into the reader.

"Aha!" he yelled triumphantly, staring at the screen. "I told you it looked familiar! See for yourself."

Curious, despite himself, Spock stepped closer and looked at the screen, too. Another brain scan was there, of a different kind, yet it was not hard at all to see the similarities between the two.

"Remarkable," Spock said softly.

"Isn't it?" McCoy nodded, eyes shining with anticipation, all tiredness forgotten. "I've seen the same pattern on a scan of a Vuclan brain, that's why I couldn't pinpoint it at once. If you disregard those differences the pattern is the same."

He straightened up, suddenly frowning, so did Spock.

"What scan is this, Doctor?"

"That's what bugs me," suddenly McCoy looked extremely concerned. "It's yours, Spock, and it's not that old. I made it after you came back from Organia. After you've been subjected to that blasted machine of theirs, this mind ripper, or whatever it was called."

Spock folded his arms across his chest, his expression turning grim.

"Are you sure Mr. Tanna was subjected to the same kind of influence?"

"Positive."

"Could nothing else have created this effect on his brain?"

McCoy shook his head. "If it was something else, it had to be something very similar. Some variation of the damned thing."

The Vulcan looked calm, but thoughtful.

"In that case, we appear to have a problem."

McCoy chuckled incredulously. "Trust you to put it this way. You think some Klingon ship may be following us?"

Spock shook his head. "Unlikely. The device, modified or not, works in close proximity only," he rubbed his forehead unconsciously, not noticing the worried glance McCoy sent his way. "Which means that it is on board. Someone here is not who he or she appears to be."

"So," McCoy intoned warily. "What do we do?"

"First of all, do not tell anyone about this. We would not want to give a forewarning. If anyone asks, the cause of Mr. Tanna's death remains unknown."

"That wouldn't present a problem," McCoy grunted. "I'll make the proper log entry."

"Further on, can you assist me in recalibrating the internal sensors so that they would detect Klingon life signs?"

"Sure. I'll need some time to prepare, though."

"Good. Meet me on the Bridge in two hours."

The Captain turned towards the doors, when McCoy called after him, halted in his tracks by a sudden idea.

"Spock, what if it's not a Klingon we're dealing with?"

The Vulcan looked at him steadily.

"I am certain that the scan will prove ineffective in any case, Doctor. If I were a perpetrator, I would have taken measures to avoid this complication. Unfortunately, that is exactly as much as we can do at the moment. We cannot alert security, for we do not know who the imposter is. Currently we are all in danger of sharing Mr. Tanna's fate."

"All but you, that is."

Spock looked away quickly. "Two hours, Doctor. See you on the Bridge."

He walked out before McCoy could reply.

--

Several hours that had passed since his interrogation were hardly enough to erase the traces of the ordeal from his body or the memory from his mind. The Klingon, whose name was Turagh, treated his injuries, roughly, yet effectively, but he was still dazed with the analgesic, and his right arm felt numb, as if it wasn't really his. As soon as he was able to stand straight for more than two seconds, Turagh urged him to the exit.

They walked along the long narrow corridor, scarcely lit and smelling of dead animals. Kirk was fully aware that he might have been imagining the odor. He was dizzy and nauseous, but tried to control his reactions. They weren't going to kill him, they needed him alive, therefore there was some hope that he would be allowed to rest some time in the future. That thought was the only thing that kept him walking.

They entered a large cavate chamber, which was barely furnished and looked even gloomier. Kirk glanced around automatically, his trained eye noting the number of people in the room and their positions. There were about thirty in there, most of them Klingons. He noticed a couple of Tellarites, a Rigelian, and in the center he saw the Andorian that had questioned him, who was now deep in conversation with Vorog.

Vorog was a real Klingon. He had a very pronounced cranial lobe, of a kind that Kirk had only seen once before. He knew it had something to do with genetic experiments, yet it seemed an ominous coincidence that the only two Klingons, whose bloodline wasn't contaminated, were both leaders of renegade groups: Kuna – on Maung, and Vorog here, on Ravist III.

"Ah, Captain Kirk," Vorog said in a surprisingly pleasant tone. "Welcome to our little society."

"I can't say much of your welcome," Kirk grumbled. He was supporting his splinted right arm with his left.

Vorog smirked wryly. "A necessary test, Kirk. We can't let you screw us like you screwed Starfleet."

Nasty chuckles erupted around him, and he felt his pulse pick up the pace again. With an effort, he smiled almost appreciatively.

"A wise precaution."

"And not the last one," Vorog waved to someone in the back.

Kirk turned around and stared at the man who was coming over. Not only was he human, but he was an overly familiar human, though Kirk hadn't seen that round freckled face for about ten years.

"Max!" Jim exclaimed, not hiding his shock.

Commander Terrence Maxwell, an old acquaintance from the Academy days, grinned broadly at him.

"Hi, Jim, it's nice to see you."

"But," Kirk couldn't overcome his amazement, "but I thought you were–?"

"Dead?" Maxwell's grin got even wider. "Oh no, I'm smarter than that."

"But, your ship, the _Melbourne_, it was destroyed by–"

"The Klingons, yes," Vorog grunted with grim satisfaction. "We thought that the Commander here is more useful to us alive than dead. He seemed to agree. What'd you say?" he looked at Maxwell.

"Jim, what was your first space mission?" Maxwell asked, watching him carefully.

Kirk sighed. "I was ordered to pick up the briefcase that Ambassador Sepan had left at the Jupiter station."

Maxwell laughed. Kirk glared at him.

"Sorry, Jim. I've just always found it funny that the great James T. Kirk started his career as an errand-boy. When I heard Mitch was going to join you on the _Enterprise_, I knew he would never let you live this down."

Kirk smiled indulgingly.

"_Mitch_ had never joined me on the _Enterprise_, as she was, in fact, a Deltan waitress at _Starlight United_, who had hots for _Gary_ for such a long time that we'd started to call her 'Mitch' – short for 'Mrs. Mitchell.' Anything else on your chest, Max?"

Maxwell turned to Vorog, his expression serious. "It's Kirk, all right."

The Klingon nodded grimly.

"How come you're here, Max?" Kirk couldn't help asking. He still found it difficult to assimilate the idea that Terry Maxwell would become a defector. Granted, he was a hothead at all times, and had faced numerous charges of insubordination at the Academy and later on, but Kirk had always thought it to be due to his stubborn Martian pride, nothing else. Certainly, not the level of corruption required to justify such an act.

But Maxwell grinned defiantly. "Money, Jim. My family's now embarrassingly rich. A good bargain, coming at the cost of them thinking me dead," he scowled, seeing the appalled expression on Kirk's face. "And don't look at me like that. You don't know what life is like for them!"

Realizing his face was screaming revulsion, Jim looked away. The idea simply didn't want to settle in, but here Max was, standing two feet away, telling him that the impossible, the unthinkable thing could happen even to a Starfleet officer. He had never particularly liked Max, who was primarily Gary's friend – and accomplice in all sorts of cadet rouses and practical jokes. And it was true that his ideas used to leave a bad taste in Kirk's mouth, but still, he'd come a long way...

"The money must have been unbelievable," Kirk muttered, shaking his head.

"It was," Vorog confirmed scornfully. "It's lucky the rest of our Starfleet operatives joined us for the same reason you did, Kirk, or we'd go broke before we started. Your precious Starfleet has a pervert way of choosing candidates for officers, wouldn't you say, Mrat?"

The Andorian's lips twitched, but he didn't quite smile, only nodded.

"Why did you buy him if he's so expensive?" Kirk asked, his voice suddenly loud due to his effort to mask his anger.

"He was useful," Mrat said. "Connected us to all the right people and helped coerce them."

"You see, Jim, I know the likes of you," Maxwell hissed, red with barely controlled fury. "Always correct, always go by the book, all for the king and country. I've never worshiped you the way Gary did. And how did you repay him for his faithfulness? I heard you shot him yourself."

"Do you have a point to make, Max?"

"Yes, I do. My point, JT, is that I know how to get to Starfleet golden boys like you. A lot of them are with us because of me."

"Well, I'm not here because of you, so cut the crap."

"No, you're here because your own First Officer had exposed you. Not only were you stupid enough for him to catch you, but you couldn't even get him to keep his mouth shut."

An alert sounded distinctly under Kirk's skull, telling him to be extra careful with his words. Apparently, the test wasn't over yet.

"I'd like to see you try and talk a Vulcan out of something he considers logical."

"Do I look like an idiot to you?" Maxwell sneered. "I'd never even let one aboard my ship! But I heard you were fast friends with yours, weren't you? Some even say more than that, how about that, JT?"

Blood was beating loudly against his temples, and his vision was blurry as if he was looking through a thick red veil. There was nothing he wanted more at the moment than to beat this jerk to a pulp, but he was painfully aware of Vorog's and Mrat's eyes watching him for any sign of deceit or untruthfulness in his reactions. He forced his lips to spread in a mean smirk, so tense that it hurt.

"Of course I made him my 'friend,' or do _I_ look like an idiot to you?" he spat. "Friends are far more easier to control, than colleagues, you know that? Well, probably not, since you never did have your own command, did you?"

"Interesting notion, Kirk," Vorog intoned lazily. "I believe Mr. Maxwell here has outlived his usefulness. Take this weapon," he handed Kirk a disruptor. "Kill him."

"What?!" Maxwell yelled outraged, as Kirk accepted the gun automatically. "You can't do this!" his eyes whirled frantically, as he searched for some means of escape, but everywhere around them, the Vipers were closing in, cutting any possible way out.

'_That is the test_,_'_ Kirk thought through a haze of horror and confusion, feeling the cooling presence of the gun in his hand.

"Come now, Kirk," Vorog prompted him impatiently. "You heard him. He insulted you, didn't he? No Viper would allow anyone to insult him like that. Shoot him!"

"No, Jim," Max's lips trembled, and Kirk shuddered in disgust, privately agreeing with the Klingon leader. Starfleet needed better screening procedures, so that scum like Terry Maxwell wouldn't ever be allowed into the officers' row. Garth, Ben Finney, Lisa Mills, now Maxwell – how many more were there? How many more were to come? How many more staffing mistakes? And if he were to kill Max, would he be condemning or condoning one? Which was the better?

"Please," Maxwell was now down on his knees, begging him. "Please, Jim... let me live."

Jim felt his head spinning as he looked into Maxwell's pleading eyes. It was a darned old-fashioned farce, that one. How could he possibly end up here, in the middle of this medieval travesty, faced with an impossible choice of killing or being killed? And yet, he had to agree that outdated or not, it was extremely effective, a much more effective way of proving one's true allegiance than physical torture he had endured earlier. Definitely not original. But a more efficient way, apparently, hadn't been invented.

Truth serums could have been counteracted, pain obscured. The only effective method remaining was this. _Or the mind sifter_, a tiny voice whispered in his ear, and he shuddered.

Normally the choice wouldn't be difficult, but there was too much depending on his continuing existence right now to make it lightly. If he refused to fire, all would be over. Not only for him, but for millions of other people. If he fired... Everything within him, everything that he was, was telling him to lower the disruptor, to refuse to pull the trigger. But his sense of duty was equally adamant, pressing him with enormous weight of responsibility to every person and every thing that he held dear.

His choice was cut out for him. It was logical. It was the correct one.

"Shoot him!"

He couldn't do it.

"I'm not a murderer, Vorog," he croaked with difficulty, his mouth going painfully dry.

"You are here to start a war, Kirk," the Klingon hissed angrily. "What good are you to us if you can't kill one man?" a chorus of approving cheers ran throughout the room. "Shoot him, or I'll snap your neck, human."

He had no choice.

Unable to break eye contact with Maxwell, who was white with panic, he raised his hand to take aim.

"Jim..."

His finger on the trigger tensed, pressing down, millimeter by millimeter. How long a distance measured in these miniscule quotas would it take to turn him into someone he had never been? How long till he would no longer be Jim Kirk? He knew he could wait no longer...

Suddenly somebody's hand grasped the disruptor on top of his hand. Someone's firm decisive finger covered his own lying on the trigger and pressed, quick and hard. There was a flash and a yelp, and the smell of incinerated flesh attacked his nostrils.

Terry Maxwell lay dead on the cold floor of the cave, and it was all Kirk could do – stare at the bright blue hand clasping his and the weapon.

"What the hell did you do, Mrat?" Vorog yelled infuriated.

The Andorian let go of his hand, shrugging carelessly.

"His hand was shaking, he couldn't take aim properly," he explained coolly. "I'm afraid I overdid it a little with him back there. You didn't want him to miss and hit one of us instead, did you? He fired on his own, I only steadied his aim."

"Is this true?"

"My word, Vorog."

For a long moment, the Klingon glared at him, but Kirk could tell he had accepted the Andorian's claim.

"All right, Kirk," he growled, gripping his shoulder painfully. "You're one of us now. Turagh! Give him some food, since you're his nanny. The rest of you, back to your stations. And Kirk," the grip on his shoulder hardened, "there will be more tests for you. Don't feel too cozy."

Urged towards the far end of the chamber, Kirk offered no resistance. He sat down obediently, accepting the bowl from Turagh and staring at it, without really seeing.

"Eat!" the Klingon ordered him roughly. "It's gagh. It's from yesterday so it's not alive anymore, but you humans don't like fresh food, do you?"

With that, he finally left, and Jim began to lift the fork to his mouth automatically, neither feeling the taste nor caring for it. His eyes paced around the chamber restlessly, trying to foresee the next threat, which was doubtless to come.

"Don't turn around," a voice sounded from behind, and, with a flinch, Kirk recognized Mrat's cold baritone.

"I'm listening," Kirk murmured into his plate.

"Good. I won't make a habit of saving your ass, so you'd better wake up, human. I don't know what really brought you here–"

"I wanted–"

"Shut up. Save the crap about wanting an honest war for Vorog and the others. I don't know what brought you here, but unless you snap out of whatever sweet fantasy you've made up and show that you can act like a man, it's gonna be over for you faster than for your pathetic friend over there. If you disobey another command, I have an order to kill you. And I _will_ kill you, Kirk. Don't think for one moment that I won't."

"I understand."

"I hope so. Eat your meal."

He was alone again, sitting on a filthy rug with a bowl of gagh in his lap. Closing his eyes, he leaned back into the wall, as the vivid memories of another lifetime flooded his mind's vision.

The memories of what had really brought him there. The memories of thirteen months ago.

His memories. His choices.

He allowed himself to give in to the moment and savor those memories rather than face the raw cruelness of what now was his only reality.

Just for an instant, he allowed himself to sit back and remember.


	16. The Dreaming's End

**A/N:** Just so my conscience would be clear: kindly take a look at the front page again, at the _Warning_ note, before you read on. Thank you.

**Chapter 15**

**The Dreaming's End**

_Thirteen months earlier_

The sound of vast phaser fire would have been deafening, if not for the transparent screen, shielding the shooting range from the rest of the gymnasium. Standing at the railing, above the range, Kirk looked down as the _Enterprise_ team, consisting of Spock and Sulu, competed with the Starbase 11 team in a friendly 'best shooting' match. Unseen by both the participants and the spectators, the Captain appeared to be watching the match, but his gaze hardly ever turned upon the score, instead following one figure fixedly. His face was grim.

"You should be down there, you know."

Kirk didn't turn his head, as his CMO joined him at the railing.

"Sulu's doing fine."

"I meant down with the spectators. Nothing's boosting up morale as a cheering captain."

"I don't feel like cheering, Bones."

"Why not? We're winning."

Kirk actually glanced at the score at this. Down at the arena, Spock shot a goal directly above his head, then dived into a quick shoulder roll and shot two more, before the starbase weapons' officer was even there, while Sulu neatly covered another zone. McCoy nodded his approval. Kirk remained unaffected.

"I'm surprised to see Spock there," the Doctor admitted tentatively. "I thought he'd disappear into the library for the rest of the shore leave. How did you manage to talk him into this?"

"I didn't," Kirk's eyes were once again following his First Officer. "Sulu asked him, and he agreed."

McCoy's eyebrows furrowed. "You think he's trying to prove something?"

Kirk shrugged. Then, still not lifting his eyes off the Vulcan, asked evenly, "How is he, Bones?"

The Doctor studied him, his expression for once carefully guarded.

"Is that the ship's captain asking for a health report on his first officer, or are you finally showing normal concern for your friend, Jim?"

"Both," Kirk said. "Either."

"Well," McCoy's gaze drifted down to Spock, who shot yet another goal, "As you can probably see for yourself, his eyesight is fully restored; his eye-hand coordination is as annoyingly precise as ever. Seems to me he's in good shape, Captain."

Kirk waited for more, but the Doctor seemed to be perfectly content with his report.

"Bones," Kirk sighed, "do I really have to torture you for answers?"

"You would," McCoy grunted. "I don't know, Jim. On the surface, he's all cool and cocky again. What's beneath it is really more your field of expertise than mine."

Kirk shook his head, looking away. "You give me too much credit, Bones."

"I give the credit, where credit's due," McCoy retorted, his piercing gaze digging into the Captain mercilessly. "But, for some reason, you don't want to take it."

Kirk refrained from commenting, and the Doctor decided to change the tactics.

"I heard he's being promoted to full commander," he noted casually.

"And commended, yes," Kirk nodded. "For uncommon valor."

"I heard they give you a medal, too."

Kirk grimaced in disgust.

"You'd think they would show some sense every once in a while. I nearly killed him, and for that they commend me."

McCoy's face darkened. "First of all, it was I who nearly killed him, not you. And second of all, what's the matter with you, Jim? Your concern for Spock right now is touching, especially as in the past two weeks, I haven't seen you two together once, not even on the Bridge. And I don't remember you coming into Sick Bay while he was there, either."

"I had a crisis on my hands, didn't I?"

"Never stopped you before. You've been avoiding him for days."

"I had a lot on my mind lately."

"Want to talk about it?"

"If I say 'no,' will you go away?"

"Yeah, I will," McCoy frowned at him. "I'm not playing shrink, Jim, I'm trying to help. If you don't want it, fine. I'm off duty, too, you know."

He turned to go, but Kirk caught his arm, stopping him.

"Wait, Bones," he said. "I'm sorry. You're right, I need to... I can't talk to Spock about it, obviously."

"Why not?"

"He – I just can't."

"Jim," McCoy sighed heavily, leaning on the railing again. "What's eating at you? You're not yourself lately. It isn't just Sam and Aurelan, is it?"

"I don't know, Bones," Kirk admitted somberly. "Guess I just needed some time alone."

"I see. So that's why you're hiding here, watching your First Officer from where he can't see you? You're sending mixed signals, Jim. You're drawing him close one moment, the next day you slap him, and then just turn totally indifferent. If Spock were human–"

"But he's not human, Bones!" Kirk cut him off with sharp impatience. "And I don't want him to be. I don't want him to change into something he was not supposed to be."

"Are we talking about his blood, Jim? Or are you afraid he's turning into something he wasn't supposed to be – for you?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You grew pretty comfortable with him at your side, didn't you? Perhaps a little bit too comfortable for your liking?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you? Jim, it wasn't after you discovered Sam that you came to me talking about leaving the service for good, because 'there was no decency or justice left in the universe.' It was only when Spock lost his eyesight that got you going."

"So, what's it saying about me? That I didn't love my brother enough?"

"Of course not. But it kinda makes you reevaluate your relationship with Spock, doesn't it?"

"Bones, some year and a half ago, I didn't even know he existed. Yet now..."

"Yet now, you can't picture your life without him," McCoy finished smoothly.

Kirk glanced sideways at the shrewd Doctor.

"It's not just him, Bones. If you didn't make it after that cordrazine attack, I don't think... I don't know if I'd want to go on, either."

McCoy actually smiled at this, almost parent-like tenderness in his eyes.

"Jim, you don't have to apologize to me for making me a second choice for a date. I'm afraid I'm too old to care about such things. But I still don't see your problem. So you feel for us, so what? It's a perfectly normal human reaction."

"You don't understand. Do you know how hard it was for me to send him down on the planet when he was so obviously in pain?" his hands clasping the railing went white with the force of his grasp. "All I wanted to do was to restrain him, to pump him up with painkillers and remove each blasted thing from him with my bare hands! Instead, I had to order him to endure even more, because no one else could get the job done. And I did it. And would have done it again."

"You did what you must have done," McCoy said quietly. "You made a command decision disregarding your personal feelings. It is a mark of a starship captain, Jim. You did what you must."

"But I nearly failed to do it, Bones," he turned his tortured face toward the Doctor. "Don't you see? I came this close – this close to keeping him on board. And if he didn't procure that specimen, someone else might have been infected or worse, everything would have been lost."

"Jim, it doesn't matter! You knew your duty – and you fulfilled it. That's the only important thing. You're sulking now because it would have been easier for you, day after day, if Spock were your First Officer, period. If he were a mere continuation of his station. If I were nothing, but a walking medical scanner. It used to be like that, didn't it? It used to be like that, and you were way too cool a captain, weren't you? You looked around and you saw crewmembers, living commodities, if you please. It's easier to give orders when you're surrounded by images, not people."

"Are you saying that I've treated people like instruments?"

"It sounds like a blasphemy, Jim, but in a way, yes. And it's normal. We are all out here for a reason, we have a duty to perform, a mission. You are in command of this mission. I'm not saying that you were callous or cruel, not at all. I know you felt deeply for each and every person you'd lost. I know you don't make decisions to send your crew in danger easily, and it's normal, too, because you shouldn't. But, for years you didn't allow _anyone_ to root into you, to get really close – so close, it would be clouding your judgment and you'd have to fight it."

"Sounds like a complication any wise captain would wish to avoid."

"Now you're talking like Spock. Jim, 'complications' like that make you who you are. They temper your judgment. Bring additional humanity into your decisions. Would you really like to go through life surrounded by images, instead of real people? I never saw you as a coward."

Kirk glanced up at him, half angered, half amused.

"Using hard artillery, Bones?"

"What else can I use to get under that stubborn thick skull of yours? You want me to give you a real reason to punch me in the face?"

"I can hardly wait."

"Hiding is a childish reaction, Jim."

Kirk stared at him. "Childish?"

"Yes, Jim. You're hiding from the truth, because you're afraid to look it in the face."

"And what truth is that?"

McCoy sighed, wondering briefly if he should be the one to spill it all out. He looked into Kirk's eyes, watching mean challenge play in them. And yet, there was more. Overwhelming need to know. A 'tell-me-why-it-hurts-so-much' look. He made a decision.

"Jim, you've been on your own your whole life, you got used to it. You don't trust people easily. Like real trust, you know what I mean? Who would have guessed," McCoy rolled his eyes, "that it would take a Vulcan to draw you out of your cave? Not that he tried it, mind you. But, he was there, attracted for some reason to your flaring kind of illogic. He was there, declaring for the whole world to hear that he didn't have any feelings to spare. Kinda convenient, wouldn't you say? He didn't ask for anything – he was just there. You felt safe around him, and you let your guard down, and now – surprise! – you can't go back on this.

"So you keep avoiding him, trying to convince yourself that if you do that long enough you'd stop caring about him so much. Well, I hate to break it to you, but it won't happen, Jim! You've just got your first taste of what it feels like – to really care about someone, because I don't think you've ever had before, not to this extent. You can't hide from your feelings any more than you can stop breathing air. And, you know what else? It's gonna be ten times harder for you from now on to be the captain, but it's gonna be well damn worth it. Emotional maturity is as essential for command as professional competence."

"You're saying I'm only coming of age now?"

"I'm saying that you can't gain without sacrificing something. In your case, it's that cool detachment that separates the captain from everyone else. You can maintain it, but do you really want to?"

"What if one day it saves his life or yours?"

"Oh good God. Look at him, Jim," the Doctor grabbed Kirk's arm and turned him forcibly towards the arena. "Look at him! He's fine. So am I. So is your nephew, who's on his way to Earth right now. So is your ship, according to Scotty. And that's really all you can get at any given moment. Asking for more is daydreaming. Risk is our business, Jim, you said it yourself."

"If it's too hot for me, I should get out of the kitchen?" Kirk grinned weakly and shook his head. "I always thought I could endure the heat. Not easily, maybe, but without flinch. Turns out I didn't know what the real heat was like."

"Well, now you do. Personally, I think you can stand it. You just proved you could."

Kirk looked at him fondly. "What would I have done without that vote of confidence, Bones?"

"Nah, you'd do fine," McCoy shrugged dismissively. "You're old enough and you're smart enough. It was only a moment of weakness, Captain, or I wouldn't waste my time. A reminder that, beneath that fancy golden cloth, you're still a living breathing human being. The one I wouldn't want to exchange for some over-efficient ideal starship captain."

The lights suddenly flickered at the arena, signaling the end of the match. Looking down, they saw the _Enterprise_ crew gathering around Spock and Sulu, cheering loudly and congratulating them with the victory.

"Well, I believe it's time for you to do some catching-up, Captain," McCoy urged him teasingly, not missing the wistful look in Jim's eyes.

Kirk grinned, some of the tension draining from his posture. "Care to join us?" he asked.

"And drown in his gloating over superior reaction and brilliant technique? What kind of friend are you, Jim?" McCoy raised his eyebrows, insulted. "No, thanks. I'd wait till he loses something."

"It might be a long wait, Bones."

"It'll be worth it."

--

In a dimly lit cold cave, parsecs and months away from that conversation, Jim Kirk gritted his teeth in a fruitless attempt to shut out the pain.

McCoy was right, wasn't he? He was acting childish, seeking an easy option. Bones was right there was no going back. He had realized that in full just weeks later, in Spock's quarters, while the _Enterprise_ was dangling in space between Altair VI and Vulcan. Spock had defeated him thoroughly in his fight for independence. He literary pinned Jim against the wall, much more effectively than during any of their practice sessions, – with nothing more formidable than his trust.

There was no turning back. If Spock, with all his severe Vulcan training forbidding the show of emotion, could see it and acknowledge it, how could he, Jim Kirk, an emotional human, fail him? Recognizing him for what he was at the beginning, Kirk had fought so hard to gain his trust, his confidence...

And then, he betrayed it.

--

_Two months earlier_

"Thank you for seeing me, Captain," Lewton shook his hand.

Kirk smiled self-consciously.

"It is a little hard to decline an invitation issued by Starfleet Intelligence Chief, Admiral."

Lewton returned his smile only too understandingly. "There is no need for pretence, Captain. I know you're not easily intimidated."

"It's part of the protocol, isn't it?"

Lewton's smile became somewhat tense. "Let's skip this part tonight, shall we? There's too much we need to discuss."

"I'm listening."

"Please have a seat, Captain. We're going to be here a while."

Obediently, Kirk sat down, wondering if his ability to play cat and mouse was anywhere near Lewton's league. The Admiral studied him fixedly for several long seconds, then, apparently satisfied with his would be casualness, he smiled again.

"I can see I made a fine choice," he muttered more to himself. "But to business. Our peace treaty with the Klingons was not, shall we say, exactly non-mandatory."

Kirk grinned. "It was a gunshot wedding."

"Very much so. However, a bad peace is better–"

"–than a good quarrel."

Lewton nodded. "At least, that's how the Federation Council views it. And Starfleet Command. There are those, however, who believe that war is the only way of dealing with the Klingons. I don't know if you're aware of this, but there are certain circles that believe we should have abandoned the treaty the first opportunity we had and go after the Klingons until we're done with them."

Kirk frowned dubiously. "It's a bit hard to believe that anyone on Earth would want another war on their hands."

"Have you heard Governor Cainam's speech last Thursday? He was very empathic about how we should proceed."

"He lost his son in the attack on the Hero Three colony. Naturally, he's angry."

"I'm not saying it's unnatural, Captain. I'm saying he's not alone. A lot of people had lost their friends and families shortly before we signed the treaty. And I'm not only talking about humans. Andorians, Tellarites," he paused, "Even Vulcans."

"You don't want to convince me that now Vulcans are warmongers, too?"

"I'm saying that there's certain room for marginal ideas and angry moods to float around. It's free for everyone. Though until recently we saw no traces of this development to come into any organized form."

"Until recently?"

"Yes, Captain. The Klingons were never happy with the peace treaty, either."

"Tell me about it," muttered Kirk under his breath.

"However, their government is not prepared to start another war. Their intelligence, not without our humble assistance of course, tells them continuously that we have more resources, better weapons and more ships."

"They do have the cloaking device, though."

"It is an advantage, but it doesn't outweigh the fact that we outgun and outman them."

"Do we?"

"That's classified information."

"Then, my guess is we don't."

"Really, Captain Kirk. Your faith in your own government is touching."

"That's simple logic, Admiral. Most of Starfleet vessels are meant for exploration. We haven't built a new warship in fifty years, not since the last Kushari conflict."

"That may be so, but we're not as weak as you make us sound. That, however, is not our focus now. It is a fact that the Klingon High Command does not want a war with us at the moment. But, Klingons in general want that very much. And among those there are some who organized a network, which serves one single purpose. To push our two peoples into open battle against each other again. Recently we have discovered that they have integrated some of our own people into this network. They are working together to start a new war."

Kirk frowned, not bothering to hide his reaction.

"Admiral, these are very serious accusations. Do you have any proof?"

Lewton's gaze became sharp, as he studied his guest.

"Do you think I've invited you here to exchange idle gossip, Captain? I'm the Chief of Starfleet Intelligence. Of course, I have proof. You're free to examine the evidence gathered by my operatives as soon as our meeting ends."

"Admiral, I meant no offence."

"I haven't taken any," he smiled with dry humor. "I'm only too aware of what the rest of the fleet thinks about our division. But, to answer your question, we do have proof and, as you will see, it is quite condemning. This organization is, unfortunately, a very real threat."

"What do the Klingons think about them?"

"You'll be surprised to know that the High Command is not happy with them, either. They are responsible for the assassination of Admiral Korag and his adjutants. They have tried to kill General Kor twice."

"Kor?"

"Yes, your friend Kor, who signed the treaty on behalf of the Klingon Empire, just as you have signed for us. Apparently, the Vipers consider him to be a traitor."

"The Vipers?"

"According to our intelligence, it's what they call themselves. You have to understand, Kirk," Lewton's voice rang with the effort to impress his conviction. "We can't afford another open war right now. We've been running computations on the possible outcome. We are thoroughly defeated in almost sixty percent of the projections, in another twenty seven we take over, losing over seven billion people and about thirty worlds, and the rest of it is bare survival for both sides."

Kirk shuddered. "Splendid."

"The Vipers are pushing both worlds toward that line continuously. We don't know how many of our people work for them and who they are, or when they will strike. We do have reasons to believe that they have an agent on every flagship in the fleet."

"What?"

"You heard me, Captain. And the _Enterprise_ is no exception."

Kirk bit his tongue before demanding a proof. It was still the Chief of Starfleet Intelligence he'd been talking to. Those guys never said anything without a reason.

"But the Klingons–"

"The Klingon High Command is not our enemy on this, but it also isn't our ally. Protesting against open warfare is not in their nature."

"So they don't commend it, but they won't help?"

"Exactly. We're on our own here."

"Admiral, why are you telling me all this?" Kirk glanced up at him, his eyes narrowed. "Isn't this somewhat risky?"

Lewton nodded with appreciation. "You're beginning to get a grasp of it. Kirk, there are very few, even within my division, who know what is going on. I take my orders directly from the President himself. And you, Kirk, you will be taking orders directly from me from now on."

Lewton watched him scrupulously, obviously expecting an outburst, but the Captain remained calm.

"What do you plan on doing, Admiral?" he asked evenly. "If the _Enterprise_–"

"Oh, not the _Enterprise_, Kirk. Just you. We need to get to those Vipers. To know what they plan and stop them. You're going to do it."

"Why me?"

"You've been chosen," Lewton grimaced with distaste, "by the Klingons themselves. You've been somewhat vocal about the peace treaty after it was signed, expressing your... concerns, shall we call them, regarding its sincerity. We have information that you will be approached shortly with a certain offer."

"You think they will try to enlist me?"

"They will," Lewton confirmed with absolute certainty. "And we want you to agree."

"What?!"

"Captain, we need our eyes and ears inside their group."

"Do I have a say in this?"

"No. I am ordering you to accept the offer, and to do it graciously, so that no one will suspect anything. You will be asked to supply them with information, and you will be doing exactly that – with our help, of course. You will do anything they say in order to get into their circle."

Kirk was frowning, his mood expressively foul. Yet, he realized the Admiral had every reason to act the way he was. Starfleet had never been penetrated by any hostile force to this scale before, and Starfleet was the very foundation of the Federation. If it took extreme measures to rectify this, it was Kirk's obligation to exercise these measures to the best of his abilities. But, he thought gravely, he didn't have to like it.

"Admiral, how am I supposed to get into their circle, staying on board the ship?"

"I don't want you to stay aboard your ship for long. In order for the Vipers to trust you, you'd have to be caught red-handed and kicked out of Starfleet with disgrace. We'd have to stage some prison break for you afterwards."

The Admiral leaned over to him, looking squarely into his eyes, as if trying to bore directly into his mind.

"I have to know that you can do it, Kirk. You will be charged with treason. You will stand a court-martial. No one will know that it's a game, that you're on a mission. Your fellow officers wouldn't want to be in the same room with you. I need to know that you can take it."

Jim would have lied, if he said that the Admiral's words had invoked no reservations within him. He had been proud, perhaps a bit vainly, of his career. Of the respect, admiration and envy it impressed. Of the aura of authority he produced, making people go extra length for him. To lose all this...

"I can take it, Admiral," he heard himself stating firmly.

Lewton, surprisingly, didn't look relieved.

"Very well, Captain. Once inside the group, your task is to find out the names of all the corrupted officers. You will also have to inform us of whatever plans the Vipers might harbor. They will be taking their action soon. We don't have much time."

Kirk nodded readily.

"How many people on my ship will be in on this, Admiral?"

Lewton fixed him with a piercing stare.

"Only one, Kirk. You."

"But," the Captain looked suddenly alarmed, "how can I do all this alone? They will be–"

"Captain, listen to me very carefully. As of this moment, you are under orders not to disclose any piece of information you received just now. No part of this conversation may leave this room. You are to deny even that the conversation itself has taken place. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir. Respectfully, I need to know the reason. I fully trust my senior staff and I don't believe for one second that any of them is a Klingon agent."

"Captain, you don't know the half of it," Lewton sighed.

"Then explain it to me, Admiral," Kirk demanded, deeply disturbed. "Why can't I at least tell Mr. Spock?" he insisted. "Or Doctor McCoy, for that matter?"

"Your CMO is out of the question," Lewton declared. "The man is a security risk so big it's a miracle the Federation still stands."

"McCoy is a brilliant physician!" Kirk exclaimed, his indignation flaring. "And he's the most loyal man I've ever known!"

Lewton raised a hand to prevent further protests and grimaced.

"Captain, I don't care if his father was Hippocrates and his mother Joan of Arc. I'm not saying he'd be selling us on purpose, but he can't control his impulses. His temper is a legend. He can't be trusted to do anything that might compromise his precious ethics in the slightest."

"You don't know him."

"No, but you do, and I can read between the lines of your reports as well as anyone. Even if he did have the necessary level of security clearance, which he doesn't and for a reason, he'd still be out of the question."

Kirk could tell there was no movement to be gained here. He pursed his lips stubbornly.

"All right, but why not Mr. Spock? You can hardly accuse him of flaring temper."

Lewton smiled, if the barely pronounced curve of the thin lips could be called a smile.

"No," he admitted. "But he is a greater risk than McCoy in this particular case."

"Why?" Kirk stared at him.

The Admiral fixed him with a hard stare. "Captain, you have a spy on board, maybe more than one."

As much as it pained him to admit the possibility, Kirk nodded. "So what? Spock's not a spy and he can be trusted to play along."

"I don't doubt it," Lewton said. "But simple 'playing along' will get us nowhere, Captain. As your first officer, it will be his task to conduct an investigation of your 'transgressions.' If he isn't truly convinced that what he'll be doing is absolutely necessary, all will be lost. Will he be able to do it?"

"Yes," Kirk said instantly. "Without question."

Lewton studied his determined face, somewhat amused. His eyes were a clear reflection of internal calculating process.

"Captain, I will ask you a blunt question and will expect a blunt answer. What is your relationship with Commander Spock?"

Kirk felt his jaw tensing painfully.

"Professional, Admiral."

Lewton smiled coldly, apparently expecting this.

"Easy, Captain. I'm not a member of Professional Misconduct Committee."

"Then why would you ask me this?"

Lewton sighed. "I understand that it won't exactly be a pleasant experience for you, Kirk, but you'll have to get as far from your image of an ideal starship captain as possible. And whatever relationship you have with your exec, you'd have to severe it."

"Why?" Kirk asked again, his heart sinking. "We're unbeatable when together."

He didn't mean to put it that way, he was going to say that they were an efficient command team. What he said were his thoughts verbatim, and he wasn't in the habit of sharing them this openly with someone like Lewton. The Admiral nodded, as if he had confirmed some opinion of his by that slip of the tongue.

"Well, if I read your reaction correctly, you wouldn't want him to know."

"I have no secrets from Spock," Kirk stated firmly, throwing caution to the winds. At the moment, he couldn't care less about what Lewton was thinking. "Not to inform him about this will be... inhuman."

The Admiral wasn't impressed. "Captain, it's not my fault that you didn't follow the no-fraternization policy. I bet, like most officers, you believe that it was invented because someone at the higher echelons had a bad case of voyeurism? Sorry to disappoint you, but no, it was invented to prevent situations like this. It was invented, so that those giving orders would concentrate on the task, not on hurting somebody's feelings. We are at war, Captain, declared or not. I don't have the luxury of acting 'human.' Neither do you." He stood up suddenly. "Come with me."

Without a word, Kirk followed him into the adjoined room. It was dark in here and the air felt cooler. There was nothing in the room, but a chair, much like the medical one, and a high thin-legged table. Several peculiar looking objects were lying on its surface, none of them recognizable.

"Come on over, Kirk, take a look," Lewton prompted him almost cordially. "Do you know what it is?"

Slowly, the Captain approached and studied the displayed items intently. There was something there resembling a ceramic dish, but it wasn't ceramic.

"Go ahead, touch it."

Warily, he took the object in his hand and raised it to his eyes. It was suddenly heavy. An unnerving cooling sensation spread from the point of contact, and Kirk put it down quickly, trying to conceal the growing sense of unease. He turned his attention to the rest of the display. There was a long tube with strange looking ribs, a small set of metallic planks that gave a buzz when his hand waved above them, a number of devices, which did not resemble anything he had ever seen.

"What are these?" Kirk finally turned to Lewton, who watched him expectantly.

"Nothing," the Admiral shrugged. "Merely a collection of artifacts. However, of we put them together, we'll get this."

He keyed a password on the safe cube Kirk didn't notice earlier, and the Captain saw a small apparatus. Various objects like the ones he had just examined could be seen in its construction.

"Still no idea?" Lewton glanced at him, his eyebrows raised. "And your First Officer was very thorough in his report, describing it. This is a mind sifter, Captain."

His heart missed a beat, then started to pound rapidly. So, this was a mind sifter. This was what Spock had faced on Organia. It didn't look that menacing.

The truth was he had never discussed the experience with Spock. At first, the sight of his friend seemingly unharmed brought such overwhelming wave of relief, he felt lightheaded and joked about the presumed power of the device. Then, he met Spock's darkened gaze, and a chill ran through him, as the Vulcan averted his eyes instantly, telling him the mind sifter should not be underestimated. He had never asked Spock further. The very idea that Spock had been subjected to that undoubtedly highly unpleasant procedure made him shiver, and he was grateful never to let his thoughts wander in that direction again.

"Why are you showing me this?" he asked Lewton quietly.

"Because, Captain, what you see is an upgraded version of the device that was introduced to you on Organia. It is small, portable and much more powerful. As you can see, it can be disassembled in order to elude any search – those materials are not detectable. We've conducted several tests and only were able to find one element once – in three tryouts. We have information that all Klingon agents infiltrating Starfleet are equipped with one of those. But, if you search your ship from top to bottom, you won't find it. The agent can activate it at any time against any person. That is why everything you do should be absolutely genuine. Your First Officer must believe without doubt that your personality had taken an unpleasant change – a change that would allow you to act the way you'd have to."

"Spock had fooled it once," Kirk objected. "What makes you think he won't be able to do it again?"

"He did not fool it, Captain. He merely resisted it for as long as he could. He stated himself in his report that the next setting would have broken him. And this," Lewton waved at the mind sifter casually, "this is an upgraded version. Setting two had completely broken every mind shield three full-blooded Vulcans had erected to defend themselves. None of them have survived the questioning."

"Admiral," Kirk stared at him aghast. "You don't want to say, that you... that Starfleet had subjected..."

Lewton shook his head. "You really do believe that we, in Intelligence, have fangs and suck blood of the innocent every other night, don't you? No, Captain, the Vulcans I speak of were captured by the Klingons. Our agents didn't reach them in time. In order not to submit any information, two of them killed themselves when the intensity of the mind sifter became too much. The third... the third died on our hands here, on this very base. By the time my people got to him, he was subjected to level four. Not only did they know everything he knew, Captain, but what was left of him..." Lewton sighed, his face betraying some very human emotions for the first time during the conversation, which was in a way more frightening than his words. "Captain, I knew Sahnek well. He was an exceptional officer."

"I thought there were no Vulcans with the Intelligence."

"He wasn't one of my guys, none of them were. No, he served here on the Starbase, and a damn bright boy he was."

His gaze became wistful, almost admiring, his face softened the way Kirk did not think was possible.

"Admiral..." he whispered, a sudden insight almost making him sway.

Lewton looked at him with a sad smile.

"Yes, Captain. I do have a first-hand understanding of Vulcan ethics and Vulcan integrity. And the way we humans feel when we're getting particularly close to one of them and someone's trying to hurt them. They are so tough, and that's exactly why they are vulnerable. They don't bounce back, they break. Beyond repair. I have a son of Sahnek's age, did you know that?" he said suddenly. "They were friends. Funny, how life's twisted sometimes. I never told him."

"Admiral," Kirk started again, feeling the hair on the back of his neck standing upright. "Spock is not–"

"Did you know there's a price for your head on Kronos?" Lewton cut him off sharply. "There is. A big one, too. But it's nothing compared to what is promised for that of Commander Spock. He tricked them, Kirk. He spat them in the face, he laughed at them. Generations of their best scientific minds were fighting to create a mind sifter, and Spock – well, Spock managed to deceive it almost without trying. Can you imagine how badly they want him? Not just any Vulcan, they want him. So, you can count on the fact that he will be subjected to the blasted thing – if the Klingon agent aboard your ship has so much as a hint of a doubt in your sincerity. And I'm telling you, Kirk, not only will Spock not be able to fool it again, he most certainly will not survive it."

"I'll put him under protection," Kirk said suddenly hoarsely. "Around the clock."

Lewton looked at him pityingly. "And how do you know that the guards that are supposed to protect him aren't the agents? To say nothing of the fact that you'd be screwing your cover completely."

He sighed, shook his head and made a couple of steps around the room, as if trying to get a grip on his loosening control.

"Captain, you have to understand that we cannot risk to subject Spock to the mind sifter again. Not because of him personally, but because he knows too much. Literary. Did you notice that you happen to be the most well briefed captain in the fleet? That sometimes you know things that we don't? That every time I read one of Commander Spock's reports I'm torn between sheer panic that my division is leaking information, despite all the measures we take to prevent it, and burning desire to have him working for me at whatever cost? If he's questioned with the use of this new mind sifter, we'd lose more than we know of. Than Commander Spock knows of – on a conscious level. We can't afford it. And you – do you honestly wish to make personal risk for him even greater?"

Kirk closed his eyes and shook his head in defeat. His pulse was still well above normal, and he took a moment to forcibly calm his breath. Lewton watched him, with detached sympathy.

"But, Admiral," Kirk said, frowning. "If this thing is so formidable that even Vulcans with all their mind powers can't resist it, how do you expect me to pass the test? They will know the whole plan the moment they want to prove my loyalty."

Instead of answering, Lewton pressed the com button.

"Doctor Molev, can you come to my private study now?"

"Yes, sir. Should I bring the–"

"Yes."

A moment later a young fair-haired man in medical blue with the Intelligence insignia walked into the room, a small box in his hands.

"Captain James Kirk – doctor Petar Molev," Lewton introduced them.

Kirk bowed his head curtly, but didn't extend his hand. The younger man looked at him curiously.

"A pleasure, Captain," he said cheerfully. "Though under the circumstances maybe not such a pleasure."

Kirk didn't answer, but looked at Lewton speculatively. The Admiral nodded to Molev as if giving him the permission to proceed. The young doctor positioned the box on the table carefully and opened it. Inside, on a tiny pedestal, Kirk saw a miniscule silvery plate, no bigger than a seed shell.

"What's this?" he asked with apprehension.

"This, Captain, is a product of _our_ scientific minds," Admiral Lewton explained. "This is our attempt to counteract the effects of the mind sifter. You are looking now at the only existing mind attack suppressor in the Federation. It was the only prototype that worked."

Kirk felt his mouth going suddenly dry. "Just who tested it?" he asked.

Lewton met his gaze firmly. "I did. It's not exactly a Balian hair massage, but it's bearable."

"At level four, the Admiral had lost consciousness," doctor Molev put in quietly. "But the test was successful. He did not let any of the classified information be obtained."

"How does it work?" Kirk asked, swallowing hard.

"It's implanted into the bone tissue," Molev raised a hand to touch his temple. "About here. In a couple of days, the biomaterial completely submerges into the tissue, the device becomes impossible to detect."

"You can have a full physical run on you," Lewton nodded. "And your CMO will never know anything."

"Some technology," Kirk was impressed despite his wariness.

"Yes. Our best teams have been working on it. Unfortunately, we are forced to take action before they can make more."

"Captain," Molev said. "The suppressor will inform you when you are being probed. This new mind sifter has another setting – setting zero. It's a passive scan. It takes a reading of your top-of-mind thoughts and feelings. People, who are subjected to it, don't feel anything but a twinge of headache. You will feel considerable pain."

"But it's a good warning, Kirk," Lewton added. "Thus, you can be sure whether the spy is near you or not. And Jim," he said, putting a hand on his elbow and steering him slightly aside. "I won't tell you about the odds of your coming out of it unharmed or even alive. I can order you to do this. But I would like to know if I have to."

Kirk stared at the mind sifter unseeingly. The risk he was facing made his blood race, but somehow dimly, in the background. All he could think about at the moment were his friends. He would have to... God, he would have to turn into a genuine monster to make it all work. With an upsurge of guilt and shame, he realized that technically the task wasn't so difficult. Especially, where Spock was concerned. The Vulcan was still so insecure in regard of forming personal relationships, it wouldn't be any hard to convince him that he read it all wrong.

Kirk rubbed his eyes, wishing he would be anywhere but there. _You can't gain without sacrificing something. Damn it, Bones! If I didn't listen to you, to myself, I wouldn't be facing this choice right now!_

The Federation could not afford to go to war. Billions of people, tens of worlds lost... What were several people against this kind of odds? Several people, who wouldn't even die – just get extremely disappointed. His choice seemed to be predefined. Logical. To quote a saying that Spock was so fond of, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few. _And Spock would have a better chance to be safe..._

"No, Admiral," Kirk met Lewton's gaze firmly. "You won't have to order me. I volunteer."

--

On a cold rough cave floor, parsecs away from the Federation territory, a human was sleeping uneasily, curled up to preserve some warmth. He looked young and vulnerable, and in a way desperate. A tiny drop of moist was lingering in the corner of his eye, sliding slowly from the curt dark eyelashes to the sore skin of his cheek. Without waking up, he brushed it away, grunting inaudibly. His lips stretched into a fine thin line, as if even in his sleep he had to stand his ground against hostile interventions.

His exhausted body needed rest urgently, so he was sleeping. But not dreaming. Not anymore.


	17. Flames and Ashes

**Chapter 16**

**Flames and Ashes**

Spock walked along the corridors of the Starbase towards the general reception area, where he knew his crew was saying good-byes to those reassigned. He was only just released by Admiral Cartwright after a most excruciating debriefing. Spock had a distinct impression that the Admiral was far more interested in details of Kirk's arrest than in the circumstances that had led to that tragically incredible event. He tried to maintain the usual veneer of calm confidence, but couldn't help feeling irritation. Naturally, the emotion didn't show, if one didn't count the Vulcan becoming even more reserved and tight-lipped than ever, brining his superior officer to the point of sheer annoyance. They were equally relieved when the meeting was finally over.

The Admiral was very evasive when Spock had requested a new captain to be posted on the ship, saying vaguely 'let's deal with one thing at a time.' When Spock asked which one thing he was referring to, Cartwright ignored him altogether.

As he entered the crowded dock, his eyes were drawn instantly to a small group of people standing almost in the very middle, strangely encircled in a ring of unoccupied space. Was it human intuition or simple coincidence, but they, too, glanced upon him at the same moment, and it struck him how vulnerable and uncertain they looked. His thoughts lingered for a fleeting while on the plans he had harbored a short time ago, and he felt a wave of shame washing over him instantly.

He was only trying to reassure McCoy, when he said he could not give up his responsibility for his crewmates, but, at this very moment, he suddenly felt more acutely than ever that they _were_ indeed looking at him for guidance. More importantly, they were looking at him for support. He wasn't used to it, but a long while had passed since his mission on Galileo Seven, and an even longer since Maung. They draw confidence in him, too, even when Kirk was still their captain, for they knew how much Captain Kirk valued his opinion, and they had seen more than once him changing his course of action because Spock did not approve. They were used to trust his judgment, they were used to trust _him_. How would have they reacted if he, too, had left them? Spock could not explain to himself, how that idea had eluded him at a certain moment.

He crossed the space between him and his shipmates in a steady pace, without noticing the stares he was given or even the occasional greetings of the passers by.

"How'd it go?" McCoy asked as soon as Spock approached them.

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Without incident."

The Doctor snorted. "I meant if he said anything about our situation?" he clarified.

"The Admiral had a number of comments regarding 'our situation', Doctor, none of which I find to be of value."

That was an extremely harsh appraisal, coming from Spock, and they couldn't help but stare at him. He, on the other hand, had his eyes for only one person at the moment.

Jessica Quaint stood slightly away from the others, talking to a tall dark-haired human wearing civilian clothes, whom Spock recognized as her husband-to-be. Noticing him joining the group, however, Quaint smiled and walked over, coming to a stop directly in front of him. She had already said her good-byes to the rest of them, and was hoping Spock could make it back before her transport left. The others instinctively gave them a little room.

"Lieutenant," Spock said formally.

"Captain," she answered in the same tone.

"I would like to thank you for your services to the ship and crew. It has been an honor serving with you."

"Thank you, sir," she snapped to attention, then, a brilliant smile broke on her face, eyes filling with tears. "Thank you, Spock," she said softly, never breaking eye contact. "For everything. I'm going to miss you."

An eyebrow went up slightly, animating the impassive face.

"As you humans say, Lieutenant, life is often unpredictable. Perhaps we shall see each other again."

She laughed a bit sadly. "Do you plan to join the next expedition to the Zentara system?"

"I cannot say that I am," he admitted.

"Then, logically, Mr. Spock, that's the end of it."

Tears were streaming down her face now, tears that she didn't bother to stop. Without conscious intent, Spock raised his hand and gently wiped them away. The feathery touch seemed to bring an end to her reserve, and impulsively, she hugged him, burying her face in his chest. Never minding people standing around, watching in growing astonishment, Spock put his arms around her, stroking her hair in simple, calming gesture, rocking her slightly, as if trying to sooth a frightened child.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, puling back slowly.

"Do not be," he replied just as quietly. "The cause is more than sufficient."

She made a bold attempt to smile again, meeting his eyes. There was so much unsaid in her gaze, yet, somehow she got the impression he understood. And – was that regret lurking in his eyes, surfacing despite all the years of training? She stepped back quickly before she could embarrass him further.

"I hope you'll be very happy someday, Spock," Quaint said softly. "Tell your mother, tell her that – that I am."

He nodded and raised his hand in customary greeting.

"Live long and prosper, Jessica."

She nodded, returned the salute with a shaky hand, turned on her heels abruptly, and left almost on the run to join the man waiting for her, who had started to get nervous. Their transport was about to leave, after all.

"Spock."

The Vulcan stiffened instantly, expecting all sorts of intrusive questions and pestilent remarks, for which the Doctor was notorious, but McCoy only asked in a low concerned voice:

"Are you all right?"

"I am well," Spock said automatically, turning to look at him, and seeing only sympathy written across the Doctor's face. In fact, the emotion was dominant on every face turned to him, and, for a moment, he felt almost light-headed with gratitude. They could deal with their curiosity, touched by the scene they felt privileged to witness. He nodded slowly to them, as if in acknowledgement, and was about to say something, when a voice called on him from behind.

"Captain Spock?"

He turned to see an unfamiliar security officer, standing at attention.

"Yes."

"You need to come with me, sir."

"What is this about?"

"Obviously I cannot elaborate. You need to come with me, sir. Right now."

Regardless of his respectful tone, Spock realized this was hardly a request. He nodded curtly, and the officer led the way. Without being asked, McCoy and Scotty followed them, while the others watched them go with apprehension.

They marched in silence back to the restricted area of the base, finally taking a turbolift, which brought them to the station commanding officer's office. Their attendant gestured for them to wait and disappeared inside.

"Now what is this all about?" McCoy muttered darkly. "That's not a way to treat people, ordering them back and forth like take-out."

Spock looked at him, one eyebrow elevated. "I cannot help but remind you, Doctor, that neither you nor Mr. Scott were ordered here at all in any capacity."

"Yeah, you'd rather we didn't know anything and go figure for the rest of our lives why you'd been sent back to school," the Doctor grunted. "I'm sick and tired of these blasted mind games, Spock, and I'm through being deprived of information."

"So I discovered," Spock glanced at Scotty, who blushed slightly. "However, gentlemen, I will not allow another breach of command orders while I'm still in command, is that clear?"

"Breach of command orders, Captain?"

The three of them turned to face Admiral Lewton standing in the doorway. He looked over the _Enterprise's_ officers standing at attention, taking in the distemper of various degree represented on their faces.

"I do not recall reading a report on any such event, Captain Spock," he went on silkily, concentrating finally on the Vulcan. "You do realize that it was your duty?"

McCoy stepped around Spock, before the Captain could reply.

"We deserve to know the truth, Admiral!" he threw in Lewton's face, his eyes blazing. "You can't expect Spock to clean up all the mess your people have created on his own!"

"Doctor!" Spock cut him off sharply.

Lewton's ironic gaze drifted once again to meet the Vulcan's.

"See what I mean, Spock? You have no control over your people. Beats me why they leave you in command."

"Due respect, Admiral, I am aware of your assessment of my command skills," Spock said, his cheeks flushed slightly – the only indication of his reaction. "I can hardly imagine you called me in here to make the same point for a second time."

"Correct as always, Mr. Spock," Lewton smirked wryly, stepping back into the room. "Come on in, all of you. It's either this, or putting you under arrest."

They proceeded into the room to find Admiral Cartwright standing at the CO's desk, finishing the com session. As they entered, he straightened up to look at them, giving no sign of surprise at seeing three officers instead of one.

"I have most grievous news for you, gentlemen," he said without any preamble. "Captain Kirk is dead."

"What?!" McCoy exclaimed, astounded, at the same time as Scotty blurted, "This canna be!"

Spock's face went noticeably pale, but he preferred to wait for clarification in silence.

"The security shuttle that had been carrying him," Cartwright went on gravely, "has been destroyed. Our patrol ship had analyzed the debris. Klingon disruptor fire."

"Obviously, they didn't want him to stand that court-martial," Lewton noted. "Too scared of whom else he might expose."

"Logical," Spock nodded.

"Captain, I do remember your objections regarding this transport," Cartwright said reluctantly. "Seems like your concerns have been justified. I'm sorry I didn't listen to you."

It obviously took him a great deal to say those words, but his effort went unnoticed. Both Scotty and McCoy were too shocked to pay attention, and Spock did not believe in apologies in general, especially under circumstances like these.

"What is done, is done, Admiral," he stated calmly. "I would like to examine the patrol ship logs myself."

"What for?" Lewton frowned.

But Cartwright interrupted him, apparently eager to do whatever courtesy he could towards Spock. "Certainly, Captain. I'll have them sent over to the _Enterprise_. There will be full investigation conducted, of course."

"Thank you, sir," Spock's reply was firm, but quiet.

"Mr. Scott," Cartwright called on the devastated Engineer. "You'll have to speed up whatever maintenance you're running on the _Enterprise_. You have eighteen hours before shipping out."

"Sir?" Scotty glanced up at him in alarm, then turned with the same silent appeal towards the Vulcan.

"Admiral, we were scheduled to stay here a week," Spock said.

"I know, Mr. Spock, but I'm afraid we can't afford it. The mission that you've started must be concluded, it's very important that it does. Under the circumstances, we can't take additional delays."

"Well, that's damn stupid!" McCoy exploded. Catching a warning glance Spock shot his way, he added hastily, "Sir. The crew is exhausted! Those people had been working triple shifts for weeks now, keeping constant alert in the Neutral Zone! Do you know what that kind of tension does to a human psyche? We'll be all making all sorts of mistakes before we know it!"

"Doctor, that is quite enough," Cartwright snapped, his guilt transforming into anger fast. "We all know you have a degree in space psychology. I suggest you use that knowledge to help the crew endure extra strain."

"Doctor McCoy has expressed a justified concern," Spock objected, suddenly supporting his CMO's claim. "I have every confidence that Mr. Scott can have the ship fully operational by the time frame you suggested, Admiral," he said, ignoring the Engineer's rather mean grumbling, "but the crew is another matter. The human factor–"

"Captain, I sympathize," Cartwright interrupted him, without a hint of sympathy in his voice. "But this matter is not open for discussion. Your crew is already being summoned aboard. You have your itinerary confirmed and approved. I'm sorry, gentlemen," he looked over the three of them again. "You have your orders. Dismissed."

Two openly fuming humans and one ever calm on the surface Vulcan turned to go, without raising further objections. In the doorway, Spock, who was the last one to leave, suddenly felt a hand closing around his elbow, and halted, glancing back.

"It would be a damn shame to waste you on a mission that could be fulfilled by anyone," Lewton spoke quietly in his ear. "Your Captain is dead, Spock. What's left for you there?"

Spock didn't answer, but looked pointedly at the hand, lying so obtrusively on his arm, then back at the Admiral. Nobody quite knew what Lewton saw in his eyes, but he let Spock go instantly, stepping back as if slapped.

"You know where to find me, if you change your mind," he said.

Spock nodded by means of replying, and walked out to join his shipmates.

"What the hell–" McCoy began, but Spock silenced him instantly.

"Not here, Doctor."

It was only after they reached a deserted and consequently dimly lit lounge, two levels down from the CO's office, that he allowed them to stop and catch their breath. McCoy sank into an armchair enervated, a living image of frustration. Scotty walked over to the bar, unattended at the moment.

"I believe you will find that the replicator producing alcohol beverages is locked, Mr. Scott," Spock noted placidly.

"Aye, that it is," Scotty confirmed unabashed. "But it doesn't mean we canna have a drink when we need one."

He punched several buttons, making the machine suddenly grudge and shake, then hit the panel with considerable force. The replicator signaled its readiness almost at once. In a moment, Scotty extracted three glasses filled with Terran scotch.

McCoy had emptied his in one gulp, looking shaken, with Scotty following him suit. Spock accepted the glass, but did not drink, staring into the amber liquid instead. For a while, nobody said anything.

Finally, Scott uttered, "Somebody has to tell the crew."

The Doctor shook his head in denial. "How can they do this to us? No explanations, no anything. 'Captain Kirk is dead, get on with your mission.' Is that a way to treat all officers now? Or are we simply Cartwright's favorites?"

"Doctor, I believe you have shown the Admiral enough disrespect for one evening," Spock admonished him quietly.

"Well, you've certainly showed him every courtesy, so he's fine!" McCoy rounded on him, eyes blazing. "You might as well admit it, Spock, you enjoy all those cloak and dagger games, sharing all those little secrets with Lewton and the like, while people are dying! Bet you feel privileged, too. How not, being so obviously distinguished by that old sly devil, being so heartily praised?"

Spock's face grew even more pale and reserved, but his tone was still controlled carefully.

"Doctor, I assure you I share no secrets with Admiral Lewton."

"Oh no? Looked like you were having a pretty intimate conversation from where I was standing!"

"Doctor–"

"Feel your head spinning yet, Spock? Or didn't he offer you enough to sweep you off your feet?"

"Captain," Scotty cleared his throat, pointedly avoiding looking at McCoy. "Begging yer pardon, but I gotta get those maintenance crews speed up, if ye don't mind?"

"Of course, Mr. Scott," Spock nodded to him almost gratefully. "Keep me informed of your progress."

"Aye, sir."

As the Engineer stepped out of the room only too quickly, McCoy laughed bitterly.

"Always so tactful, our Scotty," he said, shaking his head. "Like a Rigellian bear."

Spock frowned, watching him with concern. "I hold Mr. Scott in great esteem," he noted, "however, I would not name tact to be one of his greatest virtues. Or yours."

"You want tact from me, Spock?" McCoy stared at him incredulously. "Now? Of all the inhuman things to say–"

"I want you to come to your senses, Doctor," Spock snapped, his patience giving slightly under the strain. After everything that happened within the day, he felt his shields dangerously lowering, and McCoy's way of dealing with pain by getting angry with him wasn't helping, either, no matter how usual this particular reaction was. "You are on the verge of paranoid hysteria. I do not have any kind of secrets shared with anyone at Starfleet Command," he suddenly grabbed McCoy's shoulder and whirled the dazed human along with his chair to face him, leaning close, so that their eyes were on a level.

"I am not lying to you, McCoy."

An infinite moment passed, as the blue eyes, foggy and dull with emotion, were locked mortally with the black ones, shiny with earnest will and conviction. Finally, McCoy blinked, as if in acknowledgement, and Spock released his hold. There will be bruises, McCoy thought vaguely, watching Spock out of the corner of his eye, as the Vulcan stared at his hand in momentary amazement.

As the Captain straightened up, however, he was the same cold and composed Vulcan that the _Enterprise_ crew was used to seeing. He took his untouched glass and placed it on the table in front of the Doctor. Silently, McCoy lifted it to his lips and took a sip, slowly this time, letting the familiar biting taste of scotch work its way on his nerves. After a while, he spoke, in a deadly calm, even voice, which he hardly recognized as his own.

"You know, I kept saying to myself that it would all clear up somehow. Jim would be investigated, something new would come up, something that would explain all this madness... return him to us the way he was. I couldn't truly bring myself to accept him as a traitor. And now it's all over. All. Over. He's dead, he's never coming back, traitor or not. And I can't help but think that somehow it was my fault. If I'd been paying more attention, if only I'd noticed the signs..."

"Self-incrimination is hardly an advisable course of action, Doctor," Spock's voice was a bit colder than usual, the evident sign that control didn't come easy to him, too. The news had shaken both men pretty hard. "You are not responsible for Captain Kirk's actions. You did not notice the signs because there were none. Captain Kirk was not a traitor."

"What?" McCoy breathed out weakly, looking up at the Vulcan stunned. "What are you talking about, Spock? You collected the evidence yourself."

Spock nodded, somewhat absently, sliding fluidly into an armchair opposite him.

"I did. And it was condemning. But I discovered no evidence other than that which the Captain had handed me himself."

"I don't follow you, Spock."

"Has it not occurred to you, Doctor, that Captain Kirk was abysmally bad in hiding his activities for a man of his abilities? I have known him for a long time, McCoy. I had been privy to the way he made his decisions – under very different circumstances. He was always quick, never hasty; he took risks, yet none too reckless; and he had always been extremely efficient," his elbows on the table, Spock steepled his fingers, pensively staring nowhere. "I have played numerous games of chess with him, Doctor. It might seem a simple hobby to you, but the game provided us with ample opportunities to observe the way each of us analyzes the data and formulates a strategy. The Captain could not be unaware that he was leaving far too many clues for me not to suspect him."

"You know, I wondered about that," McCoy said thoughtfully. "I remember thinking 'How stupid could Jim get?' I could have done better, and isn't that a thought? But I believed it was all an indicator that he lost it somewhere along the way."

Spock's eyebrow creased in response. "The thought did occur to me, too. But you examined him yourself after the arrest. He was perfectly sane."

McCoy nodded miserably. "You can't imagine how much I hoped to find something wrong with him."

"His personal conduct had also changed in a way that was bound to attract attention. The Captain was once referred to as a man who could 'charm the stones to speak.' Both you and I have witnessed many times how he used that charm in the line of duty."

"I always wondered if he had a hidden on/off switch," McCoy smiled reminiscently.

"Precisely. Would it not be logical for him to use this proven instrument to divert the crew's attention?" Spock paused, then added firmly, merciless to himself, "He could have used it to distract me, as well. He had to be aware that I, too, was not immune to the blaze of his charisma."

"No, you weren't, were you?" McCoy glanced up at him, with sudden sympathy. "Poor Spock. Caught up between that ruthless Vulcan restraint of yours and a human who didn't know what the word meant."

Spock preferred to ignore the comment, though he couldn't stop his eyes from drifting away for a moment. _What is wrong with me? Can I no longer control my own reaction?_

"As I was saying, instead of using this instrument to his benefit, he did everything to antagonize his crew. He insisted on giving orders that would endanger the ship if not defied. He knew that under the circumstances neither I, nor Mr. Scott would have permitted him to do it, and even an attempt to insist would incriminate him later."

"Like when he tried to order all senior officers off the ship?"

"Exactly. Think of it, Doctor. In his irrational demands, he was at times downright cruel. The James Kirk we know could never be cruel or even impolite to a woman, even when she was an enemy. Yet, both Lieutenants Quaint and Uhura had to bear continuous disrespect from the Captain. Not to mention Yeoman Barrows."

"Yes, Tonia's nearly exhausted my tranquilizers' stock," McCoy nodded thoughtfully. "But I had my hands full and didn't pay attention. Do you think that's what he wanted, Spock? Us to notice?"

"Not just to notice, Doctor," the Vulcan sighed, lowering his forehead to his clasped hands for a moment. "To take action. He could have stopped my investigation at any moment. He could have simply stated he wasn't guilty, and it would have been me who would have to be confined to the brig. He never did."

"He wanted you to arrest him," McCoy whispered urgently. "But why, Spock, why? What could have been gained by posing as a traitor?"

"Every action implies a counteraction, Doctor," Spock leaned back, trying not to give away his growing fatigue. "An act of treason is a betrayal of trust. But it is also a way to gain trust – of someone else."

"So, whose trust he was trying to gain? The Klingons'?"

"The Klingons are presently at peace with us," Spock replied. "At peace, which looks more like a break in open hostilities, when both sides regain some strength. However, my research indicates that there is certain movement on both sides, aiming at the renewal of the war."

"At both sides, Mr. Spock? I can't believe the Federation would want another war."

"You should read the media outlets more often, Doctor. The Federation does not want a war – on a state level. But there are a lot of angry people after the last Klingon raids. Movements of the sort that I imply had always prayed on such people easily."

"And you think that Jim might have been trying to become a part of such a movement?"

"I agree, Doctor, there are a lot of suppositions here. But that is the only theory that I managed to formulate where what little facts we do have do not contradict each other."

"But, Spock, if you are right in your theory – Jim couldn't have acted alone. The Command must have been in the know of what he'd been up to. Why go on with the charade now that Jim is gone? Why not tell us?"

"Doctor, that movement I spoke of – my initial research indicates that it must be receiving support from someone in the higher echelons. As has happened not once in my living memory and I'm sure in yours, Starfleet's right hand might not know what its left hand is doing."

"A colloquialism from you, Spock? These must be the trying times indeed."

They sat in silence for a while, contemplating the possibilities. McCoy used the lull to empty his glass. He looked at the Vulcan and cringed internally. Spock sat absolutely still, gazing in space with a vacant stare, a deep frown creasing his forehead. He inescapably reminded McCoy of the time when he was using his every resource to control the pain, caused by the parasite that attacked him on Deneva. Same stiff posture, same palpable tension.

"How did you come to all this?" McCoy asked him softly. "When?"

Spock sighed. "Too late, Doctor. I have come to all this too late. I failed in embracing logic, I got too distracted by my human side, and, as a result, Jim is dead."

"Spock," McCoy stared at him in shock. "None of this was your doing. This monstrous scheme was somebody else's invention."

Spock shook his head, profound sadness softening his features. "This 'monstrous scheme,' Doctor, was all too plain for anyone who applies logic to see through. I was –" for a moment, his breath caught, he closed his eyes, as if ashamed to meet the human's gaze, "–I was more concerned with Jim's words that he was tired sick of me, than with what was happening. I shamed my heritage. I am unworthy to call myself a Vulcan."

"He said _that_ to you?" McCoy couldn't believe his ears. "Spock, this can't be true. Jim would never – he couldn't – not to you, of all people! Something's wrong here."

Spock straightened up forcefully. He seemed even more upset by letting himself show weakness in front of McCoy, than by his failure to use logic at the proper time. He stood up abruptly, clasping his hands behind his back, as if drawing strength from the familiar routine.

"We do not know at this point whom at Starfleet Command we can trust," he stated evenly. "We will have to find our answers ourselves. We have to be extra careful, Doctor, for we are not alone on the _Enterprise_."

McCoy shuddered, thinking of the body that was still lying in the ship's morgue.

"But what can we do, Captain?" he asked. "They are among us and around us, and we don't know who they are, or how they're gonna act."

"We do know what they want, Doctor," Spock pointed out calmly. "The motive is the hardest to gather. Since we already have, we should use it to our advantage."

McCoy glanced up at him unconvinced.

"You don't believe that, Spock. You're just saying this to reassure me."

"Really, Doctor," the familiar reproach colored Spock's dead voice. "There is no need to be insulting."

Despite himself, McCoy felt his lips twitch in a grin, as he stood up to follow the Vulcan out of the lounge.

--

"Mr. Scott! Over here, sir!"

The voice of the engineering mate was shrill. Scotty sighed, extricating himself from a Jefferies tube. Couldn't these new kids give him five minutes without asking stupid questions? He hated crew rotations. Every time he began to feel that the Engineering had finally started to tick, his nurtured and trained personnel was taken away from him, to be replaced with some one-year-out-of-school kiddies, who were pumped to the gills with theory and couldn't tell one end of the warp core from the other. He hated crew rotations, but he couldn't do anything about Starfleet's standing regulations, could he?

"What's up, lad?" he asked, only partially succeeding in masking his annoyance. "Peters, is it?"

"Donovan, sir," the young engineer was positively shaken.

"Ye look like ye've seen a ghost," Scott commented. "Whatever it is, it could not be this–"

He fell silent abruptly, as Donovan stepped away from the entrance to the maintenance subsection, a small room, where they stored their equipment. Madeline Mathewson was lying motionless on the floor, dark red blood surrounded her head like an aura. Or a crown.

"Oh no," Scotty breathed out, kneeling at her side, "Mandy..."

He reached for the pulse, already knowing that it was useless, that she was dead and for a long time. Her body felt rigid, her skin cold.

Anger at the unknown murderer combined with frustration over everything that had been happening lately, made him not stand but spring to his feet, startling the new technician. Paying him no attention, Scott walked determinedly to the nearest wall comm.

"Scott to Bridge."

"Uhura here."

"Get me the Captain, now."

Even if she was surprised by the harshness of his tone, this very harshness made her refrain from questions. Scotty's gaze was drawn despite his will to the lifeless body once again. _She was one of my lads_, he thought bitterly. _And she nearly made it out of here_.

"This is a bad omen," he heard Donovan whisper. "We're all gonna die on this trip."

"This is no trip, this is a mission!" Scotty snapped, before he knew he was doing it. "And if ye don't get a grip on yerself, I'm gonna ship ye out of here with her body while we're still at the drydock, and exchange ye for someone who sees the difference! Is that clear, lad?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the boy jumped to attention.

Scotty glared at his frightened face, and suddenly felt his anger draining. He would have given anything, really anything to be able to be frightened like that again. To feel anything else, other than this overwhelming frustration and burning helpless fury.

"Mr. Scott, I have the Captain for you, sir," Uhura's voice called him back unobtrusively.

"Right," he said into the comm. "Right."

But there was nothing right about it. Nothing at all.


	18. Bluffs and Gambles

**A/N:** Sorry, sorry, sorry. This time was stolen. But I'm becoming a more competent time-thief by the day. I hope it won't take that long the next time.

**Chapter 17**

**Bluffs and Gambles**

"We have been betrayed."

Vorog's growl was deafening. The effect wasn't lost on anyone who was on the bridge of the Bird Of Prey at the moment, not even on Mrat. The Andorian's antennae flattened, emphasizing his outrage – or disbelief.

Standing by his station at the helm console, Kirk watched the Klingon fixedly, trying to present the same picture of shock and fury he read all around him. With the loud pounding of his heart and a slight veil of sweat emerging on his forehead, he didn't have to try too hard.

Being the best pilot aboard, he was assigned to the helm almost instantly upon boarding the vessel four days ago. He couldn't say he enjoyed the time. As a Klingon commander, Vorog had only one way of dealing with every breach of discipline aboard – physical violence. The Klingon members of the crew were entitled to retaliate, non-Klingons didn't have that privilege. And one could never tell what constituted a breach of discipline around here.

In the four days that had passed since they lifted off, Kirk was beaten so many times, he lost count. The injuries were never too severe to prevent him from performing his duties; however, by the end of the second day, his whole body was stiff and sore and aching from head to foot. But physical pain was not the worst of it. Controlling his impulses and automatic reflexes to fight back was way much harder for him. He was used to defend himself, to fight back, since he was fourteen; Starfleet had only given shape to this instinct. Suppressing it nearly got the best of him. Not to mention his frustration at the seemingly aimless course he was ordered to maintain.

He was even more frustrated at his inability to make contact with Lewton, send him the information he obtained and let him know he was in. What would happen if the Admiral simply assumed that he had been killed in the security shuttle along with his two guards? What would the whole plan come up to?

The Andorian didn't make his life on board easier, either. Jim couldn't help it, hard as he might have tried, to control his own reaction when Mrat was near him. His first response was shiver; then, an upsurge of pain usually shot through his right arm, healed though it had been for days now. He cursed himself mutely, being almost enraged with his own weakness. He was an experienced Starfleet officer, a starship captain; torture was something he was expected to be able to deal with. He was trained to, and he had passed every test. Yet, every time Mrat entered the room, he felt the disgusting icy wet tremor crawling down his spine, like a snake. The worst of it was that the Andorian seemed to be very much aware of the effect he was invoking in Kirk and enjoyed it immensely.

At the moment, though, the Andorian's attention was concentrated fully on their commander.

"We have been betrayed," Vorog growled again, "by our own people. By the High Command."

There was a general chorus of indignant murmurs and exclamations coming from the Klingons. The minority representing the Federation species remained silent and alert.

"Yes, the High Command decided to _cooperate_ with humans in developing the Sherman's planet."

"But," Kirk blurted out before thinking, "The Federation was about to win the rights to the Sherman's planet. You couldn't develop it as successfully as we did."

"That's right, you were about to claim the world," Vorog hissed angrily at him. "But our _diplomats_," he spat the word with disgust, "managed to _negotiate_ a delay. The Federation has graciously allowed the Klingon settlement to remain. To work 'side by side' with them. And instead of cutting their pompous tongues out, the High Command agreed to their terms! They are without honor!"

"Repugnant!"

"Outrageous!"

"Unheard of!"

Kirk frowned, calculating quickly what the news meant. The situation on the Sherman's planet was, by last report, quite optimistic. Under the terms of the treaty, the world was about to officially become a Federation protectorate. If the Federation diplomatic team agreed to grant the Klingons a delay, and even more than that, a scheme of coexistence, they would have to have a very good reason for that. The world was of utmost strategic importance, to lose it would be catastrophic, to ensure one's rights over it - a clear win. Perhaps the Federation diplomats believed the importance of the precedent, of two antagonistic powers working together in peace, to be of greater value than strategic advantage. It could begin a whole new era for both sides. Vorog, clearly, understood this too.

"Our ships were ordered to retreat," Vorog continued, when the angry voices subsided slightly. "As were Starfleet's."

Kirk barely suppressed a gasp. That seemed like a foolish optimism rather than a wise move.

"Let's attack!" somebody shouted, supported instantly by enthusiastic cheers. "Destroy both colonies. That'll give the traitors a lesson!"

"We don't have the power," Mrat spoke, coming to stand at his commander's side and glancing around menacingly. "We have one ship. It's not enough to eradicate two protected settlements, even without patrolling ships to guard them."

"We don't need that much force," Vorog said, mean gleam splashing in his eyes. "Three ship commanders are ready to support us – if," he made a pause, looking around pointedly, "if we destroy one obstacle. The route to the planet is heavily protected. If we destroy this protection, they will destroy the colony. And then war is inevitable."

"What obstacle is that?" somebody asked.

Vorog turned to look directly at Kirk, and so did Mrat. Jim realized he had no choice in the matter. They knew the name of that 'obstacle' as well as he did. Refusal to respond would gain him nothing.

"The K-7 station," he replied quietly. "It is the key to the whole sector's defenses, including the Sherman's planet."

Vorog nodded with grim satisfaction. "Yes, the K-7 station. If we destroy it, we'll leave the way to that abomination of a colony free for our brothers. And you, Kirk, will give us all the tactical layouts of the station's defenses."

Kirk blinked, feeling each gaze locking on him.

"I don't know the tactical layouts," he said the first thing springing to mind, trying for the casual tone. "I've never been posted on a space station."

"Then, you will make a good guess, Kirk," Vorog stepped closer, so that Kirk could feel his breath on his face. "Or die."

Jim nodded his understanding. But, when he assumed his station, waiting the navigator to plot a course towards K-7, he felt his desperation wash over him in a nauseous rhythm. He must warn Starfleet Command, he must warn the K-7 station. He must... He looked up to see Mrat staring at him with a suspicious glance. Would the Andorian help him again? Or would his reasons for doing so in the past remain a mystery?

Because, Starfleet orders or not, Kirk knew he would do anything to prevent the attack on the station. And, if it included blowing his own cover story, he didn't care.

--

"You have to do something, Spock!" McCoy demanded, as his fist struck the briefing room table hard. "You have to find this murderer before he kills anyone else!"

Spock's face was infuriatingly calm and unreadable, as that of a sphinx, who was a bearer of the secret knowledge he didn't plan on sharing. That particular veneer had always made McCoy want to either climb the walls or smash it with something really hard. The latter option tended for a clean win right now.

"Doctor, I am doing the best I can."

"Well, then, your best isn't good enough, Captain! Your people are still dying!"

"I am aware of that fact, Doctor."

"Are you? Do you know what it feels like to have your mind ripped in pieces by that thing? Do you know what my exam of Mathewson's body revealed? They are aware till the very last moment, Spock, feeling every inch of it! Can you imagine the agony they were going through?"

A shadow crossed Spock's face, as he stared at McCoy blankly.

"I do not have to imagine any of this, Doctor. I can even add several details to your colorful description of the process."

McCoy's breath caught at these quiet matter-of-fact words. He turned visibly pale at the reminder.

"Spock, I'm sorry," he muttered, rubbing his forehead tiredly. "I don't know how I could have forgotten..."

"You are understandably upset."

The doors swooshed open, and the Engineer strode in, carrying a pad that he handed to Spock at once.

"Status on the upgrades, Captain," he reported, his voice tight to the point of breaking.

Spock looked up at him, maintaining his scrutiny for a while, before accepting the pad. He had noted, undoubtedly, the dark rims under Scott's eyes, red and weary, and the way his body was ringing with tension, but decided not to comment. Something told him that any show of concern would not be appreciated.

"I can see this does not quite meet your estimates," the Captain noted cautiously.

"Nay, it doesn't," Scott acknowledged flatly.

He was staring purposefully at the opposite wall. Customarily, in a situation like that, they could have expected all sorts of indignant notions addressed to those at Starfleet Command, who ordered the ship out of the drydock before it was ready. Not this time, however. Spock exchanged a brief glance with the Doctor.

"Sit down, Mr. Scott."

The Engineer flinched, finally looking at his commanding officer in mild alarm.

"Captain, I–"

"I require your expert advice," Spock explained, gesturing to a chair.

Reluctantly, Scotty obeyed, sitting at the very edge of the chair, his legs bent in a sprinter position. McCoy shook his head at this, but mercifully remained silent.

"Gentlemen," Spock laid the pad aside and turned all of his attention to his officers. "We have a perpetrator aboard and no technical means to expose him. That only leaves us one possible option. We must discover his next victim before he does."

"You're talking about it as if it were a simple murder investigation," McCoy waved his hand dismissively. "His motive was obvious. Information."

"But why those crewmen, Doctor? If it was information he is after, why pick someone like Ensign Tanna? He was a low ranking officer. An unlikely source of valuable data."

"He did work in yer department, Mr. Spock," Scotty noted thoughtfully.

"Yes," McCoy nodded, suddenly inspired. "Not only that, Spock, but I believe he was one of your protégés. Maybe the killer thought you'd shared something important with him."

Spock frowned in concentration. "I do not believe I treated the Ensign any differently than anyone else on my staff."

"Except for Jess Quaint," McCoy supplied eagerly. "She was your deputy and you trusted her. And Jess spent a lot of time with Renseb and Tanna."

The Vulcan appeared to consider the theory, but then shook his head slightly.

"Still impractical, Doctor. Why create such a long chain in order to get the desired information? Why not attack Lieutenant Quaint? Or me, for that matter?"

"Maybe they dinna want the attention," Scotty mused. "If they'd killed the Captain, there'd be an investigation. Mission suspended, no one going anywhere. I dinna think they'd want that."

"Mandy was very close to you, wasn't she, Scotty?" McCoy tried to soften his question with an apologetic look.

"Aye, she was," the Engineer sighed. "Until, well..."

"This still does not quite fit," Spock gazed at his steepled fingers pensively. "Mr. Scott is not in the habit of sharing classified information with his subordinates. Anyone who had been aboard long enough has to be aware of that."

"Spock, what's the point of this?" McCoy grunted tiredly. "You don't need our ideas, they will never be logical enough for you. If you ask me, I think Tanna was sort of dangling one's feet in the water. A tryout. And Mandy was attacked in the hopes that she knew something Scotty had told her. You, me, Scotty – our deaths would have attracted too much attention."

"That may be so, Doctor. However, I have a certain... inkling that this match is nearing its endspiel. The thirst for information will only grow, and the perpetrator will get bolder, since we so obviously have no means of catching him," rising from his seat, Spock fixed both humans with a heavy stare. "From now on, gentlemen, you are under orders to never be alone at any moment. When you leave any public area, a member of the crew is to accompany you at all times. I would also suggest–"

"Spock, this is crazy!" McCoy interrupted him, his indignation flaring. "I can't walk around the ship with a guard!"

"I did not say you must be accompanied by a guard, Doctor. Any crewmember will do."

"Captain, I wouldn't be able to work with someone hanging around me at all times," Scott complained.

"That was an order, gentlemen," Spock's voice turned cold to the point of freezing. "I would also suggest you share quarters with somebody for the time being."

"What?!" a double exclamation.

"The person you choose must be on the same shift roster as you," Spock continued unperturbed. "So that neither of you would be alone during your rest periods."

"And what if we choose to share quarters with the killer, Spock?" McCoy's eyes flashed in anger. "Have you considered that possibility?"

"Indeed I have, Doctor. In that case, we will know who is responsible for your death at once."

McCoy glared at him. "Only you could be this insensitive, you, cold-blooded computerized hobgoblin."

"Captain, that's totally uncalled for!"

"Really, Mr. Scott? I'm afraid I cannot agree."

"What about you, Spock?" McCoy's eyes narrowed, as if locking on target. "Will you be sharing quarters with someone? Or do you think you're invincible to the mind ripper since you've been through it once?"

"I think no such thing, Doctor, however, I find it highly unlikely that I will be the next victim."

Before the Doctor could counter him, the doors opened again, revealing a very disturbed looking Uhura.

"Captain," she intoned breathlessly, glancing at McCoy and Scotty uncertainly.

"Yes, Lieutenant," he motioned her in. "Do you have anything to report?"

Hesitantly, she came over to him and handed him a pad.

"You asked me to come straight to you, sir," she spoke quietly, watching him with apprehension.

Spock frowned, as he read on. Without lifting his gaze off the pad, he stepped back and sank into a chair, only to get to his feet the next moment, giving both McCoy and Scotty a start with this uncharacteristic restlessness. Uhura bit her lip nervously, unable to look away from his clearly troubled face. Finally, Spock looked at her, standing close enough for their feet to touch.

"How did you get this?"

She blushed, dropping her eyes to the floor, her hands gripping the fabric of her skirt anxiously.

"The _Lexington_, sir," she almost whispered.

Spock's eyes glinted in comprehension. The _Lexington's_ Communications Officer was Uhura's long-term friend. He was not the only one among the communications staff dispersed throughout the fleet. Spock discovered this net of exchanging information by accident, and, instead of reporting it, was thoughtful enough to look the other way. As a result, he was oftentimes more informed about the events aboard other Starfleet vessels, than any other officer in the fleet.

"You realize what it means?" he asked Uhura quietly.

She glanced up at him hesitantly. "I think so, sir."

Their eyes locked for an infinite moment, then Spock nodded to her. "Resume your station."

"Yes, sir," relief colored her stiff reply, as she turned to go.

"Lieutenant," Spock called after her. "I realize what you did to obtain this. I cannot commend your actions, but... thank you."

She blushed again and nodded gratefully, before leaving.

"Spock, what the devil is going on?" McCoy blurted out impatiently. "What's this all about?"

Instead of answering, Spock handed him the pad. Both McCoy and Scotty bent over it, reading hungrily.

"_All the ships patrolling the Sherman's planet are recalled_," the Engineer read aloud. "_The new agreement_–"

"This is crazy," McCoy exclaimed, glancing at Spock to assess his reaction. "The planet will be virtually defenseless."

"I dinna believe in all this 'peaceful cooperation' talk," Scotty declared resolutely. "It's not like the Klingons to leave without a fight."

"I believe you are right, Mr. Scott. The Command has obviously made a mistake in agreeing to pull off the ships, while the colonists are still there."

"What are you going to do?" McCoy asked.

Spock punched the comm button determinately. "Spock to Lieutenant Uhura."

"Uhura here, sir."

"Lieutenant, try to raise Starfleet Command. I'll join you on the Bridge shortly. Spock out."

"Spock, do you think it's wise – going into the open?" McCoy frowned dubiously. "I mean, for one thing, you clearly shouldn't be aware of this order."

"But I am, Doctor. And as I am aware, I must act."

"Spock, it won't help us if you're relieved from command now."

He turned in the doorway to see two faces stricken with concern. Something about the sight bothered him, and he felt a peculiar sensation spreading from the area in his side, very close to where his heart was pumping blood steadily.

"I assure you, Doctor, I have no intention of letting them do so."

They moved to follow him out, when Scotty suddenly caught McCoy's arm.

"Doctor, ye wouldn't happen to be on the same shift roster with me?"

McCoy stared at him. "You don't think he was serious, do you?"

"Sounded pretty serious to me," Scotty shrugged. "And ye know how that Vulcan can be. I'd rather no one else knew about this."

The Doctor rolled his eyes in surrender. "All right, Scotty. At the risk of sounding indecent, your quarters or mine?"

Equally frustrated, Scotty sighed deeply, staring after the Captain with unspeakable anguish in his eyes.

--

"Step away from the console."

He hated that voice. He could only remember one other time in his life when he had hated someone this vehemently. Kodos the Executioner. The Andorian was hardly a match for him; though, Kirk mused unhappily, he couldn't be sure of that. He knew nothing about him.

"Put your hands where I can see them, Kirk. Nice and slow."

He obeyed, seeing no point in provoking his opponent.

"Turn around." He did. Mrat's hand disruptor was staring him squarely in the chest. "Whom did you try to communicate with?"

"No one. I was simply trying to realign the sensors for better efficiency."

Mrat smirked wryly. "Who do you think you're fooling, Kirk? Those are the comm relays. Sensors are in the next intersection."

"Are they?" he feigned surprise, not very convincingly though. "Well, then, I'd better get to that intersection."

But the disruptor didn't budge, as the cold dark-blue eyes surveyed him scornfully.

"You know what I think, Kirk? I think you're a mole. I think you've been trying to contact Starfleet, which I think you've never left. You tried to warn them about the plan."

Kirk's heart missed a beat, then picked up a racing pace. So, that was it. The moment of making decision. The biggest bluff he had ever pulled in his life had just been called. Would he have a winning hand?

"Say you're right," Kirk tilted his head almost in challenge, adrenalin rocket-spiraling into his brain. "Will you help me?"

Mrat's eyes narrowed in disdain. "What makes you think I want to help you?"

"Because if you didn't, you'd have called Vorog in here already."

For a long moment, measured in unsteady pounding of Kirk's heart, Mrat simply stared at him, as if trying to reach a decision. That might well have been the gamble of his life, too, Kirk thought vaguely, never breaking eye contact. If the Andorian decides to turn him in...

Slowly, the gun lowered, though the blue fingers were still holding it steadily.

"You can't establish a channel from here. I've tried. From here, from all over the ship. You'll have to wait for another option."

_Breathe out. You do have a winning hand._

"Who are you?"

The Andorian met his gaze, bitter irony infiltrating his voice. "I'm an agent Admiral Lewton thinks he's lost. Because I couldn't make contact."

"So you became Vorog's First Officer?" Kirk stared at him in stunned indignation. "You had to kill people, give orders to kill, tortured them – it's–"

"Shut up!" the gun was suddenly pressed under his chin roughly. "You think I've enjoyed that, Kirk? I had no choice. I had to survive, and that included not blowing off the cover," Mrat stepped back, lowering the weapon again. "I knew the Admiral would send another agent – it was too important a mission to abandon it. When you turned up, I knew it had to be you."

"Why?" Kirk snapped with some renewed ring of authority. "Why was I any better than any other Starfleet officer who'd joined Vorog? You've seen that list, I'm sure you have. There are a lot of high ranking officers there. How could you tell I was Lewton's agent?"

"You couldn't kill Maxwell. Had you indeed been a warmonger, Kirk, you'd pulled that trigger without a flinch."

"Like you did."

"Intelligence personnel is trained to take whatever measures necessary to ensure the success of the mission," the Andorian informed him in a patronizing tone. "We never make it to the news releases, Kirk. Never look too good. But we get the job done."

"And I suppose you also have superior intuition that told you I've been sent here by Lewton?"

"Didn't need any. James T. Kirk of the _Enterprise_ – joining a renegade movement to start a war?" Mrat raised his eyebrows mockingly, his antennae whirling. "Quite unthinkable. The same James T. Kirk who spared the life of the Gorn he could have killed so easily and be within his rights? Unlikely."

"I might be more of a warmonger, than you think," Kirk ventured darkly. "I wanted to destroy his ship, Mrat. I don't know why I didn't kill him there, but I ordered an attack on his vessel, even though Spock tried to talk me out of it."

"Ah yes, your precious Vulcan. Tell me, Captain, is he really that good? Lewton, you see, had been positively ecstatic about him for months. We used to have a bet among the operatives that he would either get him or kill him."

"Spock would never agree to work for Intelligence."

"Really, Captain? Still, you got here with his help, didn't you? Looks to me, like in a way he already is working for them," the Andorian remarked lamely. "Oh, don't get too upset, Kirk. Your First Officer wouldn't be the first Vulcan that our dear Admiral had coerced into something he didn't want to do – or didn't think he wanted to do. Lewton has a certain... weakness to those stubborn green-blooded downers."

"I've heard that one before, Mrat, from the Admiral himself," Kirk tried his best to maintain a cold veneer. "And I'm absolutely sure that Spock won't be interested in the job... no matter what persuasion."

"You know him that well, do you? Kirk, if you had, by any chance, told him anything about your mission, you're a dead man."

"I haven't told him anything," Kirk uttered grimly. "He doesn't know I'm here. He thinks I'm a defector. That I deserted Starfleet and... him."

"Well, at least that proves you're not a complete idiot. Now, listen carefully, Kirk," the Andorian leaned close to him, his voice dropping even lower. "You'll have to give Vorog what he wants to know. You'll have to give him the K-7 defenses."

"I can't. He'll kill everyone aboard."

"He'll kill everyone aboard with or without your help. Maybe if he can disable their screens and weapons, he won't kill them all. This is our chance, Kirk."

"A chance to do what?"

"To warn Starfleet Command. We'd lose the station, but we can save the planet. The fleet won't be that far away."

"How can we warn them?"

"During the attack, you'll get to an emergency pod and be off. I'll see that you're covered."

Kirk stared at him. "That's not a justifiable risk. I don't know the exact odds, but I can tell you they aren't high. Too great a risk we'd lose the station _and_ the planet."

"That's the best chance we have," the Andorian hissed. "You think I haven't already explored the possibilities? I've been at it for days, Kirk. There's no other way to get the word out. It's a risk we'll have to take."

"And leave over five hundred people of the station's personnel and visitors to be slaughtered? If you're considering this, you've been undercover for too long a time, Mrat. That's unacceptable."

"Really? How about those five hundred _and_ another five thousand on the planet? What part of this situation you don't get, Kirk? If we do as I say, there's a slim chance. If we don't, there's none. The Admiral didn't tell you you're going to be making this sort of decisions, did he? Well, he didn't tell me that, either."

"I won't do it."

"Oh, I'll make the choice easy for you, Kirk. If you don't do as I say, I'll tell Vorog you're a spy immediately. He'll extract the knowledge from your mind with a mind sifter, and then proceed to the station as planned. Does that option appeal to you, Captain?"

Kirk met his gaze grimly. Logically, Mrat was right. A slim chance was preferable to no chance. And his plan did have its merits. It was just that Kirk couldn't bring himself to trust him. And five hundred people on the station seemed to be a sacrifice of unthinkable magnitude. The Andorian was right here, too; with lesser resistance, Vorog might harm less people. And, if he summoned Vorog now, there would be no future not only for those five thousand and five hundred, but for millions on both sides as well.

"What say you, human?" Mrat watched him fixedly, as he was formulating a decision. "Should I call Vorog in now?"

"No," Kirk said quickly. "We'll go on with your plan."

The antennae on the Andorian's head nearly curled with satisfaction.

--

The Bridge greeted him with a tense buzzing, as if he stepped into an ant-heap in the middle of a summer day. The crew seemed to be galvanized by some invisible but tangible breeze that quite probably was blowing from Lieutenant Uhura's station. She was so completely engrossed with her task – she didn't even turn her head at the Captain's entrance.

Spock strode towards the Engineering station, glancing over the monitors quickly, then stepped to the inner rim to check Sulu's console.

"How far till our next stop, Lieutenant?"

"Approximately twenty nine hours to Gretbaz, sir."

The Captain appeared to chew on this a little.

"Mr. Renseb," he turned to the young Lieutenant, who was manning the Science station. "Make a long range scan of the area. Any vessels in the vicinity?"

Renseb bent over the scanning monitor dutifully, his smooth face creasing in concentration.

"No, sir," he reported after a short while.

"Status on the planet?"

The Lieutenant made a couple of adjustments, and straightened up with mild uncertainness.

"Reads normal, Captain. No variations from the profile."

"Very well," Spock glanced briefly at Scott and McCoy who had just entered the Bridge. "Lieutenant Uhura, were you able to raise Starfleet Command?"

"Yes, sir," she replied, listening to her earpiece with a grimace. "The signal is very weak, though. I've got Admiral Cartwright for you now."

"Put him on screen."

A somewhat unsteady, but recognizable image of Cartwright appeared on the main viewscreen. The Admiral looked anything but pleased.

"What's this about, Captain?" he demanded menacingly. "I'm a busy man."

"Then I will get straight to the point, sir," Spock said, resting his hands on the arm of the captain's chair. "Your order to recall all ships from the Sherman's planet was a mistake."

"What?!" the Admiral was clearly outraged. "You've contacted me to tell me that I've given a wrong order? You're forgetting yourself, Captain. Just who do your think you are? And how do you even know about that order?"

"Admiral, you are leaving the planet dangerously defenseless," Spock continued, as if the Admiral hadn't spoken at all. "The diplomatic team might not be aware of certain circumstances–"

"The diplomatic team has negotiated a way for us to maintain peace!" Cartwright bellowed. "They know their job, Spock! If they agreed to those terms, they must have received guarantees that the Klingons would honor the agreement."

"Due respect, Admiral, those diplomats are sitting twelve parsecs away from the Klingon border," Scotty blurted out impatiently. "We've been patrolling the Neutral Zone for two months. In this supposedly peaceful time, we've been attacked twice, not to mention the raids on the planets' surface. Ye canna trust the Klingons!"

"Mr. Scott," Spock glanced at him sharply. "You have made your point. Admiral, the _Enterprise_ is only nine hours away from the Sherman's planet. We could divert to the neighboring sector, without undermining the agreement, and–"

"Out of the question," Cartwright growled. "I will not allow you to jeopardize our newly found common ground with the Klingons. Any diversion from your present course will be considered an act of mutiny, Captain. Do I make myself clear?"

Spock had no other option, but to acknowledge.

"Yes, sir."

"Then resume your mission. And Captain, if I hear you meddling in something which is none of your business again, I'll be forced to take action, understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Cartwright out."

The stars appeared on the viewscreen again, witnessing the devastated silence on the Bridge. Spock was still standing at the command chair, his hands on its arm. It was the same way he stood numerous times before at his Captain's side. But this time the central seat was empty, and Spock felt the full weight of responsibility for the decision he was about to make.

Scotty swore vigorously. "That bloody bunch of bureaucrats! What'd they know about what it's like out here?"

"Mr. Chekov," Spock glanced at the Navigator. "Plot a course for the K-7 station. ETA at warp six?"

After a moment's hesitation, Chekov began to input figures on his console.

"Spock, what are you doing?" McCoy hissed, stepping down to him. "You can't defy the Admiral's orders, you'll be crucified."

"Keptin, at warp six we'll be there in ten hours thirty four minutes," Chekov reported grimly.

"Mr. Scott, can you give me anything faster than warp six?"

"Aye, but ye dinna really think ye can pull that one, do ye?"

"Gentlemen," Spock frowned and fell silent abruptly.

He was about to chide them, but then his gaze lingered on the Doctor. A conversation of a long ago came to his mind unasked. After they were back from the Murasaki effect, the Doctor criticized his command style further. _People don't trust you, because they don't know what's happening in your head, Spock. Keep it all to yourself, see where it'll get you._ He found the argument most illogical before. But somehow, at this very moment, the need to communicate seemed suddenly crucial.

He glanced around the Bridge, meeting uncertain, tense gazes.

"Gentlemen," he repeated in a different tone. "I am convinced that the order to withdraw the ships was a mistake. This crew – you – have been on the front line, you know what we are dealing with. The Klingons are not known for their inclination towards peaceful coexistence. What they cannot obtain legally, they take by force. They were losing the Sherman's planet. They will not pass an opportunity to take it when it is defenseless."

"But what about the orders?" Uhura asked quietly.

Spock looked at her. All of a sudden, he discovered that it was easier for him to conceal his own doubts in front of those who showed them so openly.

"Lieutenant, as Starfleet officers, it is our duty to protect the Federation at all costs," he paused meaningfully. "Sometimes, it includes defying those orders which are wrong."

"Spock, you're talking about mutiny," McCoy's tone was stiff.

"The responsibility will be mine, gentlemen," Spock made eye contact with every person present. "And mine alone. You are following my orders."

The silence seemed to stretch forever, as they glanced at each other warily. Sulu met Scotty's eyes; the Engineer looked at the Doctor. The responsibility would lie on the Captain – in most part. But his senior officers would be just as likely to find themselves facing a general court-martial.

"I would not recommend going faster than warp seven point five, sir," Scotty spoke finally. "If we have to go to battle, ye wouldn't want to exhaust the engines before we get there."

Everyone looked at the Engineer, who stood a bit too rigidly at his station, eyes on the Captain. Spock nodded slowly in acknowledgement and turned towards the helm.

"Mr. Chekov, lay in the course. Mr. Sulu, ahead warp factor seven."

They busied themselves with their consoles instantly, doubts forgotten.

"Course laid in, sir."

"Warp seven, aye, Captain."

Uhura put her earpiece back in, prepared to scan the general channels. Spock locked gazes with McCoy. The Doctor shrugged at him, looking sour, but made no further objections.

Very determinately, Spock slid into the central seat, emanating confidence of the correct decision.

Just as the ship started to vibrate in a different pattern, signaling its readiness to go to warp, another voice broke the busy buzzing.

"I'm afraid I can't allow you to go to K-7, Captain. From now on, you will be taking orders from me."


	19. Masks Off

**A/N:** T'Lu, in my country, they don't accept bribery, unless it's making a gurgling sound.;-) Seriously though, to quote Mr. Scott, a phaser can only drain as fast. I'm doing the best I can. And all of you, my dear perceptive friends, will get your answers now. Enjoy! (Hopefully)

**Chapter 18**

**Masks Off**

Very slowly in the ensuing silence, Spock turned around, as did the rest of the Bridge crew, towards the Science station.

Lieutenant Renseb was holding a phaser, aimed directly at Spock's chest. His face was suddenly stern; no reverence towards youthful innocence and enthusiasm he was so often to transmit. Instinctively, a security guard made a step towards him, but Renseb glanced sharply at him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he said in a cold self-assured tone that hardly any of them associated with him. "I have a bio-triggered explosive within my body. Should my adrenaline level rise or any part of me be hit, it will go off. Go ahead, check it," he added, seeing doubt written on their faces.

"Mr. Chekov," Spock ordered quietly.

The Navigator took out the portable scanner and aimed it at the Lieutenant at once.

"I'm reading trixonite in great quantities, Keptin," he reported, frowning in alarm.

"Trixonite?" McCoy's tone reflected his confusion.

"A highly unstable biochemical compound of great destructive power, recently discovered by the Federation scientists," Spock explained coolly. "In simple terms, Doctor, an explosive capable of blowing off half the ship."

Renseb smirked in satisfaction. "You know there's one thing I always liked about you, Spock," he intoned lamely. "You always did your homework. But, I must admit, I didn't think you'd have the guts to defy Starfleet orders. You were always so predictably reliable, but now you spoiled my game."

"Lieutenant, what is it you want?" Spock's voice was calm and patient, but his expression grim.

"Oh, nothing too complicated, Captain," Renseb appeared almost cheery. "I want all the corridors cleared between here and Engineering. I want Mr. Scott to accompany me there."

"And do what?" Scotty snapped.

"Why, turn the engines off, of course, Mr. Scott. I need the _Enterprise_ to sit very, very tight right where it is now."

"What will happen at the K-7 station, Lieutenant?" Spock demanded. "Why do you want to keep us here?"

"That's for me to know and for you to never find out," Renseb retorted.

"Is the station going to be attacked?"

"None of your business."

"What about the killings on board?" McCoy asked infuriated. "Were you responsible?"

Renseb glanced at him coldly. "Yes."

"Good gracious, man. Tanna was your friend."

"Tanna was an idiot, and I needed to test my equipment. And your indignation would mean a lot more to me, Doctor, if it were directed at the real criminals – those who sign blasted peace treaties with murderers!"

"I cannot help but notice that you appear to be working with those 'murderers' now, Lieutenant," Spock stated nonchalantly.

"That's because I want a hunting license to kill each and every one of them!" Renseb's eyes were gleaming maniacally. "If it took one ship to get to Kronos, I'd be there already. But it takes more. It takes a fleet to get through to it. It takes a war. I want legal permission to cut every Klingon throat!"

"And to achieve that belligerent goal you are willing to utilize some most certainly illegal methods? That is unbecoming a man of your intelligence, Mr. Renseb."

"What do you know about my intelligence?" Renseb snapped angrily. "What do you know about me? You talk about peace with those monsters, but you don't have a brother executed by them! They mutilated him, they were tearing apart his body – while he was still alive! And you dare to ask me why I want a total war against those bastards? I don't want to kill one or two, or even a dozen. I want the whole race wipped out!"

The psychologist in McCoy told him with alarm that the Lieutenant was consciously driving himself to the state of uncontrollable fury, which would obviously enhance his decisiveness to pull the trigger. Judging by the gleam of over-the-edge zeal in his eyes, it wasn't a long way to walk. _'How did I miss that?'_ the Doctor thought miserably. _'He must have been depressed for months, ever since his family had been killed. I checked him several times since then, I thought he was a little down, but that he would turn this bad...'_

Spock either didn't sense the danger, or didn't care for it.

"That is quite illogical, Lieutenant, to blame the whole race for the crimes of several individuals."

"You can talk about logic, Spock," Renseb nodded curtly. "You don't have a heart. They killed my brother, and my sister – well, she survived, but I'd rather she didn't. She's completely lost after they were finished with her. She – she doesn't even recognize me. Doesn't understand people talking to her. She's just..."

But he couldn't finish. Before any of them could say anything, he snapped his head up again, cold determination written across his face.

"You're stalling for time," he stared at Spock accusingly. "But it won't work, Mister. Oh, I've been waiting for this – a long time, Mr. Spock. You and your goddamned logic, your blasted equations, your theories – they're not worth shucks! You think you're so smart, but you're like a darned computer, Spock, only give out information that's been fed to you, parroting it for you can't do any better. James Kirk was a great man – he saw the truth of our cause! And you – you exposed him, quoting blasted regulations – because it's all you can do! But I'll deal with you – oh, yes. For me and for him!"

Before anyone could react, he pressed the trigger button. The blindingly red beam caught Spock squarely in the chest, making him stumble back clumsily and slump to the floor, as good as dead. Uhura screamed, McCoy and Scotty yelled, Sulu sprang up to his feet, Chekov moved forward menacingly.

"Back off, everyone!" Renseb raised his phaser again. "Don't everybody move, or my adrenalin might play a dirty trick on us."

They froze in a spectacular exhibition of highly infuriated living sculptures; all except for McCoy, who bent over Spock, reaching for his medical scanner.

"Doctor, I said 'everybody,'" Renseb called on to him coolly.

"If you don't want me to help him, you'd better shoot me, too," McCoy snapped without turning back.

For a long second, Renseb eyed him suspiciously, then, apparently, decided to let the matter drop.

"He's a goner anyway," he peered at Scotty determinately. "Engineering, Mr. Scott. Let's go."

The expression on Scotty's face was quite indescribable, but, with a quick glance at the fallen Vulcan, he turned to go.

"That's it," Renseb nodded approvingly, moving after him. As he was passing Uhura's station, he suddenly grabbed her arm and dragged her along. "I'd like some company, Lieutenant," he explained nastily, as she squeaked in surprise and indignation. "Move it."

All, except for McCoy, watched them disappearing into the turbolift. As the doors closed, they rushed towards the Captain, wary of the pool of green blood spreading on the deck.

"How's he, Doctor?" Sulu voiced general anguish. "Is he stunned?"

McCoy swore through gritted teeth. "Does he look stunned, Mr. Sulu?" Spock's right shoulder was a mess of blood and burned skin. "The bloody bastard set it for kill."

"But he's alive, isn't he?" Chekov asked in alarm, kneeling at Spock's other side and watching his unsteady breathing.

"He is, bless his Vulcan reaction," McCoy grumbled. "If he didn't turn... Call Sick Bay, will you, Lieutenant? I need a gurney in here immediately."

"Quite... unnecessary, Doctor."

Startled, McCoy stared at the long pale fingers closed around his wrist, then slowly raised his eyes to Spock's face.

The Vulcan was looking back at him, clearly in pain, yet with familiar cold determination. Spock's eyes drifted to Sulu.

"Clear those... corridors, Lieutenant. Signal... Yellow Alert."

"Aye, sir," Sulu breathed out in relief and moved to his console.

Spock suddenly lifted his body on his elbows, aiming for a sitting position.

"Whoa, what'd you think you're doing?" McCoy exclaimed, caught by surprise. His hands reached automatically to help Spock position himself against the captain's chair.

"I need to... go after him," Spock hissed with difficulty, his chest heaving in an unsteady pattern.

"You're in no condition to go anywhere, Captain, except for Sick Bay," McCoy snapped, taking another set of readings with his scanner.

"No time," Spock said, flinching as the Doctor pulverized his wound with anesthetic. "I must get... down there."

"Out of the question, Spock. Sit still, for heaven's sake! You're losing blood."

Spock reached out a shaky hand, his gaze slightly unfocused, groggy. His hand had finally found the Doctor's arm and squeezed it.

"He does not... expect me. Our only... chance. McCoy," his gaze became slightly clearer. "I do not have... much time. Give me something... for the pain, I cannot... fully control it now."

"Let someone else deal with it."

"No," Spock shook his head stubbornly. "Adrenalin. I must..."

And suddenly it dawned. Renseb was not simply indulging his feelings of vengeance when he fired on Spock. He was making sure that the only person capable of disarming him was out of the way.

"Dammit," McCoy took out another hypo angrily, checked the dosage and pressed it to Spock's shoulder. "Why does it always have to be you? You're a damn trouble-magnet, you know that?"

A near smile flickered ghostly across Spock's lips, as the medicine was taking effect.

"You used to say the same about Jim."

With the Doctor's help, he got to his feet, taking a moment to steady himself.

"Spock," McCoy called warningly, but the Vulcan straightened up and let go of his support decisively.

"I am quite functional, thank you, Doctor," he glanced around at his Bridge crew. "Man your stations. It would be better for you to stay here, too," he added to McCoy.

Dutifully, they assumed their stations, but none of them was able to watch their consoles, all eyes glued to the Captain, as he walked towards the turbolift stiffly. When the doors swooshed closed behind him, Chekov peered at the Doctor warily.

"Do you think he's gonna make it, Doctor?" he asked dubiously.

McCoy rubbed his face tiredly, equally troubled and unable to conceal it.

"We'll know very soon, Ensign. Very soon."

--

All the way down to Engineering, Renseb was chatting animatedly with Uhura. Annoyed way past the point of reason, Scotty tried not to listen. He tried not to look at Renseb, either, for the urge to knock out that pompous maniac cold was too strong and compelling without visual stimulation. Gritting his teeth, Scotty walked on, feeling Uhura's half angry, half scared gaze boring into his back.

Mercifully, somebody had indeed cleared the corridors. They walked into the vacated Engineering without any trouble. Still holding Uhura by the elbow, Renseb gestured Scott to the main control panel with his phaser.

"Go ahead, Mr. Scott. Turn them off, now. And please don't try anything. I don't want to hurt anyone else."

His hand tightened on Uhura's waist, as he slid the phaser along her cheek. The hint was only too obvious, and Scotty almost trembled with effort not to surrender to his instincts. He strode stiffly towards the controls, checking them.

"I'll need a minute to shut down the reaction chamber."

"Don't play tricks on me, Mr. Scott. You're forgetting I know this ship, too."

"Not the engines, ye don't, lad," Scotty turned to him, hands akimbo, an indignant frown on his face. "I need to lower the core temperature, otherwise the whole compartment could explode. Ye wouldn't want that, would ye?"

"Fine, fine, Mr. Scott," Renseb waved a dismissive hand at him, his attention focused on the lovely Communications Officer. "Make it quick."

As Scotty was turning back towards the console, he suddenly caught a glimpse of a shadow between two power distribution racks, right behind Renseb and Uhura. Since the Engine Room was completely vacated, this could only mean one thing. Facing the control console again, Scotty presented an image of perfect calmness, but his mind was racing. He had to make Renseb step back. Suddenly, Uhura decided to help him out.

"Let me go," she hissed angrily at her oppressor. "There's no need to hold me, I'm not going to run!"

She tried to push him away, and he held her back reflexively. The brisk movement made her foot turn awkwardly, and she lost her balance, falling backwards. Even as Renseb was bending over her, Scotty found himself on the move toward him, some sixth sense or subconscious instinct leading him, for the next moment a hand reached for the Lieutenant's shoulder and applied a neck pinch.

Renseb's body went limb, the phaser dropping out of his hand. Spock moved swiftly to prevent him from falling, but in his weakened condition, he could barely stand upright himself. Scotty reached them just in time, taking the young man's weight onto himself.

"Gently, Mr. Scott," Spock breathed out heavily, helping him steady the unconscious Lieutenant. "Ms. Uhura, if I may trouble you–"

She was on her feet already, supporting Renseb's other side and staring at Spock with eyes wide with anxiety.

Relieved, Spock staggered towards the nearest com panel.

"Spock to Bridge."

"McCoy here," the Doctor's voice was thick with worry.

"Lieutenant Renseb is unconscious. We need a gurney here right away."

"I'll be there in a moment myself. If there's no immediate danger, Spock, I strongly suggest you sit down and don't move. McCoy out."

Spock didn't sit down, but leaned heavily on the console, his eyes closing for an instant as he fought against the wave of dizziness.

"How'd ye know the neck pinch won't trigger the bomb?" Scott asked, as he and Uhura continued to hold the Lieutenant upright.

"I did not know," Spock replied with difficulty. "But I knew that any other action would. The unknown consequence is... sometimes preferable to known."

Scotty took a moment to digest this. "Ye mean ye gambled?"

Through the haze of his pain and weariness, Spock found it within himself to raise an eyebrow.

"Colloquially put, but... essentially correct. Tell McCoy to... put him in stasis."

He fell down the moment the doors opened to admit the medical team.

--

"Approaching K-7," Kirk announced gravely, checking his console needlessly. He didn't require the instruments to tell his way in this sector of space – he knew it only too well. But the motion made him feel like doing something.

"Battle stations," Vorog ordered. The deafening howl of alarm filled the Bridge. The crew was at their stations already. "Scan the area. Any vessels?"

"Negative," Kirk reported, barely concealing the hint of regret in his voice.

"Target their defense systems, lock disruptors."

"Disruptors locked, Commander." It was Mrat.

Vorog's eyes bored into Kirk. "If your aims aren't accurate, human–"

"They are accurate," Kirk snapped irritably.

"We'll see soon enough, won't we?"

"Commander, the station is hailing us," Touragh reported, checking his console. "They want to know our purpose and destination."

Vorog laughed meanly. "Then, let's answer them. Fire."

Helplessly, Kirk watched the Bird of Prey disruptors tearing the station's defenses apart, with almost casual ease. He knew there were people manning those weapons, who died before they could reach for fire controls. He glanced at Mrat's focused face, and shivered at its merciless determined expression. By destroying those weapons, they were giving the people a chance to survive, but the price was astounding. And if the Andorian wasn't here, would he, Kirk, be able to open fire?

It was over faster than anyone could expect. Before they knew it, Vorog and Mrat were organizing boarding parties, and Kirk found himself being assigned to the main one.

"We're beaming directly into the Commandant's office," Vorog glanced over his people. "If any of them make any move – shoot them."

They materialized in the middle of so very familiar brightly lit office of Mr. Lurry to find him to be the only occupant.

"What is the meaning of this attack?" he demanded instantly, stepping around his desk. "What are you–" his eyes snapped wide open, as he spotted Kirk. "Captain Kirk – but–?"

"I'm the Commander here," Vorog stated firmly, gesturing Lurry with his disruptor. "Your station is now under my command, human. Any resistance is doomed."

"The Federation will not leave it at that," Lurry snapped angrily. "This is an act of war."

"Damn right, it is," Kirk nodded curtly, flanking Vorog. "Where are your people, Mr. Lurry?"

"Taking care of the civilians," Lurry couldn't help but stare at him.

"They'd better not be planting any booby traps," Mrat commented.

"We're not soldiers here," Lurry tried desperately to explain. "Just administrators and support. You tell him, Kirk, you know we're not trained for combat. There's no need to hurt anyone."

"No need to hurt anyone?" Vorog mocked him. "Aren't you stupid, human? We're here to destroy your station."

Lurry went white. "But why? We are no menace to you. We respected the treaty."

"_The_ _treaty?_" the Klingon growled. "The treaty be damned. We are the Klingons. We don't need any cowardly treaties. Those who sign them are without honor!"

"How can you help him?" Lurry's gaze was drawn to Kirk, his voice filled with pain and incomprehension. "There must be something of a Starfleet officer left in you, Kirk. There are over five hundred people on this station. How can you help him murder them?"

"No one needs to die yet," Kirk said.

Vorog spun at him. "What? Are you switching sides again?"

"Not at all," Jim's tone was cold and even. "But what's the honor in killing helpless civilians, Vorog? You claim to be noble warriors, but tell me – where's the glory in that?"

"We must destroy the station so that our brothers would–"

"-would get a free passage to the Sherman's planet, I know. But why kill these people? You don't need to do that to fulfill your task."

Vorog's eyes narrowed. "What do you propose?"

Kirk nodded at Mr. Lurry. "Let him organize his people and put them into one of the larger cargo holds. It can be disentangled from the station. They'll have enough oxygen to wait for the rescue after the station is destroyed."

The Klingon was eyeing him suspiciously.

"If you're playing tricks with me, Kirk..."

"Dammit, I want this war, too, Vorog!" he slapped his fist angrily into the nearest wall. "But it should be left to professionals, such as us, not be put in the hands of – of mindless sheep like them," he nodded at Lurry again. "I'll see to their evacuation, while you mine the station."

"Mrat, you see to it," Vorog commanded at once. "You stay with me, Kirk. I might need your knowledge of this place," he paused, his eyes glinting malevolently, as he regarded Kirk intently. All of a sudden, he smiled. "You'd made a fine Klingon, Kirk. You understand our tradition well."

Kirk grinned wryly. "Our species are of a kind, Vorog. That's why there's no room for both in this galaxy."

"I concur. Get to work, all of you. Mrat, gather round those imbeciles and put them in a cargo hold. If anyone resists, kill them."

"Yes, Commander," Mrat acknowledged, throwing a dirty look at Kirk. "At once."

"Touragh, see that that subspace radio remains silent. Kirk, you're with me."

In several ensuing hours, Mr. Lurry's office was transformed quickly into a command center. Kirk's mind was racing, searching for some means to contact Starfleet, if not to prevent the destruction of K-7. Despite his recommendation, the Klingons had put an explosive in the reactor chamber, and were now working hastily to make certain the chain reaction would not be blocked on any stage. If only he could leave Vorog's side for a moment...

But the Commander found one task after another for him to do, without leaving his range of vision. His frustration escalated rapidly, as he was unable to invent a pretense to leave Vorog's scrutiny.

"Commander, picking up three ships closing in," Touragh reported. "Klingon cruisers. They are remaining at a distance of two hundred thousand kilometers."

"Our brothers are waiting for us to honor our agreement," Vorog nodded. "We must hurry."

The Andorian entered the room, glancing over it. His eyes narrowed slightly passing upon Kirk, before he faced his leader.

"All personnel is locked inside cargo hold four," he said. "My people are working on cutting them loose."

"Tell them to hurry, we don't have much time."

"They are not familiar with these schematics," Mrat complained. "It could take hours."

"We don't have hours," Vorog snapped. "Take Kirk with you, let him do it."

"Very well. Kirk."

Jim tried not to look too pleased with the order. As soon as they were out of the room, he rounded on Mrat determinedly.

"I must get to an emergency pod now, Mrat, he might not give me another chance."

The Andorian glanced at him darkly. "If it wasn't for your brilliant 'put them in a cargo hold' idea, you'd be on your way already."

"Why not try to save lives if we could?"

"Because the longer you remain here, the greater is the risk for a lot of other lives, Kirk," Mrat retorted. "What's the use of saving these five hundred, if you're stuck here, unable to warn Starfleet? If you'd tried to think before speaking–"

"We're losing time," Kirk cut him off firmly. "Let's go."

They strode hurriedly towards the outer ring, where the emergency pods were, trying to look inconspicuous to the Klingons they met along the way. Nearly the entire Bird of Prey complement had transported aboard to skin the station in search of anything useful.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded, filling the corridors with flashes of red light.

"What happened?" Mrat caught a Klingon rushing past him by the arm.

"A vessel is dropping out of warp," he blurted out hurriedly. "A starship!"

The antennae on the Andorian's head flattened in alarm, as he let go off the messenger. Kirk's mouth went suddenly dry.

That was one hell of a coincidence. Somehow, he didn't need sensors or viewscreens, or even windows to tell him what ship that was. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to slow his pulse. Not a moment too soon.

With an upsurge of terror, he remembered the three Klingon ships waiting at a distance, which now seemed incredibly short. The _Enterprise_ would stand no chance. If he didn't give them one.

--

"Twenty minutes to K-7, Keptin. Still no response from the station."

"Thank you, Mr. Chekov. Drop out of warp and make a thorough sensor sweep of the area. I shall join you on the Bridge shortly. Spock out."

"I don't think it's a good idea, Spock," McCoy frowned at him, adjusting the bandage on his shoulder. "This patch won't hold for long if you don't stay put."

"I cannot afford 'staying put,' Doctor," Spock replied, carefully putting his tunic back on. "Mr. Renseb came into the open for a reason. We might be already late."

At the mention of Renseb's name, the Doctor's face darkened, and he turned away, biting his lip. Spock watched him, only too eager to get to the Bridge, but somehow feeling unable to leave just yet.

"Do not concern yourself so, Doctor," he prodded cautiously, instinctively, if clumsily, trying to alleviate McCoy's discomfort. "The stasis field will keep the Lieutenant alive and harmless."

"I'm not worried about that, Spock," McCoy shook his head. "It's just that I... I should have put it all together. Remember Baruna? I saw Renseb on the Engineering deck, when all personnel was ordered off duty. Some lame excuse he made for it, too. And all those times anything was happening – he was always there. And I never bothered to stop for a moment and ask myself – why was he there? And his tests results – I've only just reviewed them. A blind man could see it with a cane, but I didn't."

"Doctor, that is quite enough," Spock interrupted him a bit more sharply than intended. "I could never understand why instead of engaging oneself in constructive activities, you humans prefer to wallow in self-pity and guilt, which is oftentimes misplaced. If anyone should have been aware of the Lieutenant's odd behavior, it should have been me. And neither of us is responsible for his actions."

"That device we found in his cabin – is that the mind sifter?"

"I will need to examine it further, but on first glance it is. Why?"

"Scotty says it's been in use for a longer time than it would have taken to kill Tanna and Mandy. Do you think – Spock, do you believe we could have all been subjected to it – to some lesser extent?"

Spock frowned in concentration; the thought evidently hadn't crossed his mind yet.

"It is possible," he said at last. "I would have been aware of a deep scan, obviously, but a fleeting sweep to pick up the surfacing thoughts and emotions... It is possible."

"Then we might be even in a deeper trouble than it seems," McCoy noted grimly. "With all the information he might have 'picked up'..."

The deck gave an almost imperceptible tremor, as the ship dropped out of warp. Almost instantly, the sound of Red Alert exploded above their heads. Glancing at each other in alarm, they started for the doors.

"Report, Mr. Sulu," Spock snapped the moment he rushed out of the turbolift.

"A Klingon Bird of Prey, sir," Sulu replied, stepping down from the command chair and pointing needlessly at the viewscreen.

"My God, what happened to this place?" McCoy gasped, gaping at the crippled station.

"Klingon disruptor fire, Doctor," Chekov explained from the Science station. "The defense grid is destroyed. Wery precise shooting."

Scotty frowned. "Too precise for the Klingons. They must have had some help."

"Readings on the ship, Ensign," Spock demanded.

"Their disruptors are loaded, but not active," Chekov sounded confused. "They're just - hovering there, sir."

"Life signs?"

"A few. Not enough to operate the wessel of this size."

"Here's your answer, then," McCoy mumbled.

"Scan the station, Mr. Chekov. Search for Klingon life signs."

"Got them, sir!" the Ensign exclaimed excitedly. "They're all over the place."

"What about the station's occupants?"

"They're there, too. I'm reading a concentration of life signs in their cargo hold."

"Captain, I'm reading a powerful explosive near the station's reactor core," Scotty reported, bending over the Engineering console, adjusting the monitors.

"Captain!" it was Sulu. "Three Birds of Prey approaching thirty degrees off our starboard bow! They'll be here in about twenty six minutes."

"Will our shields hold, Mr. Scott?"

"An attack from three Klingon battle cruisers?" Scotty stared at the Captain indignantly. "We dinna have a chance! We have to pull back. I can get us back to warp in no time."

"Negative, Mr. Scott," Spock shook his head. "We are staying."

"But surely the simple math can tell you it's illogical!" McCoy stepped close to him, his irritation flaring. "There're four ships and a station full of Klingons against us. To stay and fight would be suicide!"

"Really, Doctor McCoy, you should learn to restrain yourself," Spock told him coolly. "We have to even the odds, gentlemen."

"And how do ye suggest we do that?"

Spock glanced around the Bridge, as if correlating the items exposed with his internal catalogue.

"Mr. Sulu, assemble a boarding party. Take enough personnel to man the Bird of Prey."

Sulu's eyes went wide, but he acknowledged almost instantly. "Aye, sir."

"Lieutenant," Spock peered at Uhura in frank appraisal. "You are with him."

"Yes, sir," she nodded calmly.

"Mr. Scott, you will stay in command of the _Enterprise_. Once Mr. Sulu is in control of the Klingon ship, you will implement the Indian Defense."

"Aye, but what about the station, Mr. Spock?"

"Its weapons are inoperative. And, once you move out of transporter range, you can be sure of no interference."

"Three against two," Scotty mused grumpily. "No fancy prospect."

"I am certain in your and Mr. Sulu's strategic abilities, Mr. Scott."

"And just where do you think you're going?" McCoy demanded suspiciously.

"I will beam down to the station. That explosive must be disarmed."

"Alone, Spock?" the Doctor's voice rose unpleasantly. "Against a ship's complement of Klingons? In your condition?"

"My condition is quite satisfactory, Doctor. As for the rest of it, I have no choice."

"You're not going alone!"

"Yes, I am," Spock's tone became freezing sharp. "We have to split our crew in two. Neither Mr. Scott, nor Lieutenant Sulu could spare any considerable number of personnel, and a couple of guards would only make it easier for the Klingons to detect me."

"Then, let me go with you at least," McCoy lifted his chin up stubbornly.

"Out of the question, Doctor. Your services will be needed here."

But his CMO wasn't about to give up that easily.

"What if your wound reopens, Spock? What if you lose consciousness? With no one there to help you, you'll die – along with those five hundred people."

"McCoy, I have given you a direct order," Spock snapped, his annoyance suddenly surfacing. "We have lost enough time arguing. Mr. Sulu, off you go, report your progress to Mr. Scott. And Mr. Scott," he came face to face with the Engineer, just as Sulu and Uhura rushed past him. "I do not make the decision to leave the ship lightly. But I am aware that I could not be leaving it in better hands."

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Scotty simply nodded.

"Good luck, Captain."

Without glancing back once, Spock stepped off the Bridge.


	20. Dispersed

**Chapter 19**

**Dispersed**

"Attention, all Vipers, attention," Vorog's voice was echoing loudly in the corridors of the station. "The Starfleet vessel is trying to disable our ship. Report to me immediately."

"Quickly, this way," the Andorian grabbed Kirk's arm and pulled him into a nearby room, which appeared to be a life support backup cubicle.

"What are you doing?" Kirk asked, watching him jury-rig one of the control panel.

"I'm trying to get us a glimpse of what's happening," Mrat muttered absently, his fingers flying over the console. "Here, I got it."

Quickly, Kirk came over to take a look. His heart made a tangible jolt.

"It _is_ the _Enterprise_," he whispered. "It _is_ my ship."

"Doesn't matter what ship it is," Mrat retorted sharply. "We must use the moment. Vorog will attack them, or those other Klingon ships. You must seize the moment to escape."

"No," Kirk shook his head determinedly. "I must help them."

"Are you out of your mind, Kirk? You can't help them, they are outnumbered four to one. The best your ship can do for you is distract their attention long enough for you to escape."

"I'm not going anywhere," Jim reiterated stubbornly, "except for the maintenance room. Come on!"

He ran out of the cubicle before Mrat could stop him.

"What are you doing, Kirk?" the Andorian panted, following him suit. "This is insane! How can you possibly help them?"

"What would you do if you were in command of the ship now?" Kirk asked, entering the deserted auxiliary control room on the run.

"Get the hell out of here."

Jim chuckled, opening the control panel. "And they say you in Intelligence are supposed to be bright. Look out of the window, Mrat! There's a ship out there, fully operational and scarcely manned. Any decent commander would seize it to even the chances. Why do you think Vorog summoned all hands to him so urgently? He knows that, too."

"So, what are you doing?" the Andorian looked genuinely puzzled.

"I'm shorting out the transporters. That'll give the _Enterprise_ a fighting chance. Here, that should do it."

They both stared at the blinking red light on the panel, indicating an overload in the transporter circuits. Kirk grinned in satisfaction.

"Looks like years of watching Mr. Scott didn't go to a waste."

"Now what?" Mrat did not look impressed.

"Now we disarm that bomb they planted in the reactor chamber."

"You _are_ out of your mind, Kirk," the Andorian's antennae tensed like strings being pulled. "Even if you could, the passage is guarded and Vorog is already looking for us."

"We'll have to break through then. And I don't really give a damn about what Vorog's doing. Let's go!"

Cursing, the Andorian followed him once again down the deserted corridors, taking the shortest route to the reaction chamber. To Kirk's surprise, the Klingons, who were supposed to guard the entrance, lay motionless on the floor by the doors.

"Strange," Mrat muttered, bending over them. "They seem to be stunned."

Kirk moved past him into the chamber. "Perhaps not all personnel was locked up in that cargo container," he shrugged. "Your pals wouldn't have bothered with the stun setting."

"He might be still here, whoever it is," Mrat cautioned him from the doorway, as Kirk moved inside the dimly lit and over-furnished with equipment room towards the main reactor, where the ominous panel of the explosive's controls was blinking menacingly.

"You watch the doors, I'll take care of this," Kirk replied almost absently, his eyes on the device.

Just as he came closer and was focusing on examining it, he detected a soundless movement, swift and threatening and only visible in the corner of his eye.

"No!" he shouted, spinning around, trying to get out of reach of that overly efficient hand, aiming for his shoulder.

He had only partially succeeded.

--

"Just a little longer, Lieutenant," a pleading voice tried to sound reassuring to little avail. "Just another little bit."

Clenching her teeth against the searing pain spreading from her hip, Uhura nodded, leaning heavily on the blue-shirt ensign, who tried to guide her to the Klingon Bridge.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ she chided herself mutely. How stupid can you get to get caught in a crossfire? She wasn't even sure if it was a friend or foe who shot her.

The boarding operation didn't go entirely according to plan. Sulu and the Security people, who went with the first wave, had taken control over the Bridge as planned, but then the remaining Klingons managed to transfer all command functions to Engineering. Sulu's team blocked the navigational and weapons' control, but they couldn't get much further.

Sulu sent two teams down to forth the Klingons out of Engineering. As nobody had figured out yet how to work the intercom, Uhura was supposed to stay in the middle, coordinating their efforts. The plan had lasted exactly till the first intersection. They had been ambushed, and she'd been shot.

Somebody took her equipment and went on. She hoped it was someone from the _Enterprise_. And this nameless ensign, who had pulled her out of the fireline and was ordered to take care of her, remained behind.

"Hold it," she panted wearily. "We're never going to make it this way."

"Ma'am?" the Ensign was looking at her in alarm.

God, he's so young, she thought suddenly. The thought surprised her. She wasn't that much older than him, not that much at all. But, staring in those eyes, wide with fear, she was feeling old enough to be his mother. Why?

"We're on deck six, Ensign," she leaned against the wall, her hands feeling its smooth surface. "Five decks from Engineering, five from the Bridge. If you were a Klingon, wouldn't you put your auxiliary control room around here somewhere?"

He appeared startled at the comparison, but nodded in comprehension almost at once. _'Bright boy,'_ she thought with a smile. What was his name?

"How about you go this way and I go that way, until we find it?"

His face became suddenly stern. "Ma'am, this is most illogical. You are wounded. You can't go anywhere without my assistance."

She rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't happen to have any Vulcan blood in you, would you?"

"Ma'am?"

"Just watch me."

She managed indeed to walk, holding to the wall steadily, limping and whimpering in pain. He watched her for a couple of seconds, then hurried in the opposite direction, trying to make sense of the Klingon markings on the walls.

She found it first and entirely by accident. Staring at another incoherent sign on the door, she felt the ship shake as if being hit. The deck went out from under her feet for an instant, enough for her to lose her balance and fall face forward onto the closed doors. By some universally predefined coincidence, they opened at that very moment, revealing a wary looking Klingon behind it.

The next thing Uhura knew, she was lying on the deck, waves of searing pain making her body arch in agony, nearly sending her over the edge. Slowly, she concentrated on the Klingon face towering over her. It came lower, and lower, and lower still, and then it smirked triumphantly, as if having captured a precious prize. She stared back at him, and suddenly smiled sweetly. The look of surprise barely registered on his face, when she pulled the trigger.

It had the desirable effect – almost. She did stun him, but losing his coordination, he fell right on top of her, making her scream in pain, as she felt a cascade of consuming flames smashing into her wound.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant, are you all right?"

The Ensign came panting in the doorway, staring down at her.

"Do I look all right?" she hissed, trying to push the heavy body off. "Help me, dammit!"

He bent over and lifted up the unconscious form as quickly as he could, but was unable to prevent causing her pain to escalate.

"I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Aren't we all," she spat. "Help me up."

"I don't know if you are willing to hear this," he said, as he lifted her cautiously to her feet. "But I believe you've found the auxiliary control."

She stammered towards the control panel and stared at the alien signs in frustration.

"Dammit, where's Jess when you need her?" she muttered. "That, I think, is the life support back-up system," she traced the panel with her finger thoughtfully, as the ship gave another shake. "That must be the engines. This looks like the internal sensor grid. And just what is this?"

Impulsively, she punched the peculiar looking button. Immediately, a multiple sound of doors being swooshed open filled the room. The Ensign looked along the corridor in both directions, and turned to look at her in genuine surprise.

"It appears you've unlocked all the door mechanisms on the ship."

She stared at him aghast. "All of them?"

"So it would seem."

Her communicator beeped softly against her belt, and leaning on the panel for balance, she flipped it open.

"Uhura here."

"It's Sulu," the Helmsman sounded excited. "We've taken over Engineering. Somehow the doors just – opened."

"Yes, I might have had something to do with it, Mr. Sulu," Uhura said. "I'm in auxiliary control."

"Good work, Lieutenant! Can you come up to the Bridge?"

"Not without assistance," she admitted reluctantly. "One of them shot me. Any chance you could send Chris down here?"

There was a slight pause as Sulu located the Nurse, who was assigned to the boarding party as a field medic.

"She's on her way. Hold on, Ny."

"Aye-aye, sir," she closed the communicator, and met the nervous gaze of her companion. "What's your name, Ensign?"

"Loewenherz," he said, blushing for some reason. "Hans Loewenherz."

She laughed, despite the pain and the haze of the fight, filling her body with adrenaline.

"Well, Hans," she looked kindly at him. "We might make a real Lion Heart out of you yet."

With tremendous satisfaction, she watched as his pale cheeks turned the deep dominating purple.

--

"That should hold for now," Christine Chapel smiled at the security guard reassuringly. He tried to smile back, but the burning pain in his stomach turned his smile into a grimace. "Try not to move," Christine nodded at him sympathetically, and got up to her feet.

"Nurse," he called after her, as she moved to check out the next patient. "Would you – go to dance with me?"

She smiled kindly again, not giving away what it cost her. "Of course, Lieutenant. You just wait till we get rid of those boring Klingons, and we'll go to dance."

"In the Main Rec," he coughed. "1800..."

"Sharp. I'll be there."

She knelt beside another guard, lying uncomfortably on the cold deck in the cramped room, which apparently served as officers' mess.

"Miss Chapel," the wounded man caught her wrist. She met his eyes steadily. "How's Tom?"

She glanced back at the patient she had just treated. He was delirious.

"Not good," she shook her head sadly. "If we don't get him to Sick Bay soon–"

"He'll die," his friend finished for her. "Can't you – can't you do anything for him here?"

She fought back the angry tears. "I'll do everything I can," she replied calmly. "But I'm not a doctor."

"I know," he said. "They ain't ever as pretty."

She checked his wound and gave him a mild sedative, then moved on.

She had never felt so utterly frustrated in her life. Sulu was on the Bridge, giving orders that would save them all and the people on the station. Scotty was on the _Enterprise_, doing the same. Chekov was analyzing the data. She remembered how insistent Uhura was on getting to the Bridge, how stoically she endured the crude treatment Christine was able to provide. She was there right now, too, ready to fire on those bastards. Spock was somewhere on the station, trying to save civilians. McCoy was taking care of the injured. And she...

She felt so helpless, so inapt. What good was she to those people? Their injuries were far too severe for her to manage, especially under these conditions. Tom Letto was dying, and there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't even alleviate his pain, for the risk of analgesics pushing him into a coma was too great. She was so distinctly helpless.

"Tom," Diego called on to his friend, trying to get through the haze of his delirium.

"Yeah?"

"I told you – told you to spend more time in the gym. That Basil Lock, you've never managed it."

"It wasn't the Basil Lock that put me down, you idiot... 'twas the bloody disruptor in my guts."

"Still, when we... get out of here, I'll teach you... how to – how to do it."

Tom coughed again, a thin stream of blood coming out of his mouth.

Chapel closed her eyes for a second, as she moved on to another patient. They were not counting on her for help. She was but a pretty face to chat with, a funny little nurse, who could only say 'Yes, Doctor' and 'No, Doctor.'

_Jess would never be so inert__, so out there_.

None of them would.

On the _Enterprise_, in her lab, she always felt useful, important. Needed. Here, she was just another person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

_They would have died already, if you weren't here_, some tiny, timid voice tried to reassure her. She shushed it.

Two years in space changed her more than she could ever imagine. Yet only now did she begin to see how long a road she still had to walk.

--

"We're in control of the ship, Mr. Scott and at your disposal."

"About time," Scotty grunted glancing at the chronometer. "Those Klingon beasties will be here any minute."

"They are taking long range shots at us," Chekov reported from the Science station. "But they are not attacking the Bird of Prey."

"Did ye get that, lad?" Scott asked into the comm.

"Yes," Sulu's voice rang with enthusiasm. "Let's get them one hell of a surprise party."

"Mind those Klingon controls, Lieutenant. Flying that thing might get tricky."

"Lieutenant Uhura thinks she's got the neck of it, sir," Sulu reported proudly. "We'll manage. You keep them off our backs long enough, and don't worry about the rest."

Scott grinned at his youthful audacity and shook his head slightly.

"Don't get overconfident, Mr. Sulu. We still got the station to protect."

Closing the channel, he turned to look at Chekov. "Might as well pull them off a little," he mused aloud.

"Mr. Scott!" Chekov exclaimed suddenly. "I'm reading another transport in progress!"

"What?"

"Confirmed, someone's transporting off the ship."

"Override!"

"I can't, sir. It's too late."

"What the hell's going on?" Scotty muttered, punching the intercom. "Security to Transporter Room on the double."

They waited in silence for several unbearably long seconds, until the com link became alive again.

"Lieutenant Soukhart to Mr. Scott. We've found Mr. Kyle unconscious on the deck. There's a mark on his neck, as if from a hypo. Would you like us to check the buffer and see who it was?"

"Negative," Scott shook his head angrily. "I know exactly who it was, and I'll break his bloody neck for that for sure. Scott out."

"Who was it, sir?" Chekov asked curiously.

"Time to intercept, Mr. Chekov?" Scott asked instead of replying.

"Four minutes, thirty two seconds."

"Mr. DePaul, course two-three-eight, mark seven, warp four," the Engineer ordered briskly.

"Sir," DePaul glanced back at him in confusion. "That will take us away from the station."

"Aye, I'm counting on that," Scotty nodded. "Engage. Let's see how single-minded those Klingons are."

It worked – at least partly. All three ships changed course to follow the _Enterprise_, paying no attention to the station and the remaining ship.

"They're opening fire!" Chekov announced a bit too loudly. The next moment, they all felt the full weight of the Klingon battle wrath. "Damage to number four, five, six aft shields!" Chekov yelled at the top of his voice, trying to overpower the cacophony of sounds on the shaken Bridge. "They're firing again!"

"Return fire!" Scott grabbed the navigational console for support, looking over Riley's shoulder. "Target their weapons' systems!"

"No damage, sir," Riley reported miserably in a while.

"Again!"

"The phaser controls are jammed, sir! We're defenseless!"

"Mr. Scott!" Chekov was holding fast to the Science station monitor. "We can't take much more of this, aft shields failing – another blast will do it!"

"Ye shouldn't count yer chickens before they hatch, Mr. Chekov," Scotty snapped back. "We should give Sulu more time. All power to the shields!"

The lights on the Bridge went out with yet another shot; several panels short-circuited. Leveling himself with difficulty, Scotty hit the com panel.

"Engineering!" he bellowed. "Have ye all decided to take a nap? Where's my blasted power?"

"Warp drive is out, sir," some distorted hollow voice reported. "Impossible to restart the main power re-"

"Then switch to auxiliary! And don't ye give any of that 'impossible to restart' crap _to me_! Get to work!"

"Aye, sir!"

"Mr. Scott, the Klingons are dropping their shields," Chekov informed him hoarsely. "They are ready to board us."

"Now would be a good time, Mr. Sulu," Scott muttered under his breath. "Lieutenant! Photon torpedoes, full spread."

Riley looked at him in alarm. "But sir! We're too close and our shields–"

"-will have to take it," Scott cut him off. "Fire."

--

"Mr. Sulu, the Bird of Prey is losing power!" Ensign Tuscot reported excitedly.

"Which one?" Sulu whirled at her.

"The furthest from us, sir. The _Enterprise's_ torpedoes must have penetrated its shielding."

"Status on the _Enterprise_ and the other ships."

"The _Enterprise_ is severely damaged, sir," Tuscot told him, watching her console. "Other Klingons appear intact. Their shields are still down."

"Target their weapons," Sulu ordered grimly. Sweat was streaming down his face, as he placed a hand on Uhura's shoulder, without noticing, his eyes glued to the screen.

"Target locked, sir," she said, her graceful fingers freezing over the controls. In position. Ready.

"Simultaneous fire, Lieutenant. Do you understand?" he bent over to her, eyes still fixed on the screen. "Simultaneous fire. Can you do that?"

She bit her lip to stop it from trembling, staring at the controls intently.

"Yes, sir."

"How long till we're in range?"

"Fifteen seconds, captain."

Swallowing hard, Sulu glanced uncertainly at the command chair and then at the helm, where a very young ensign was operating the controls. Sulu's gaze bore into the ensign's back, he felt a short wave of dizziness overpowering him. _'I can't do this,'_ he thought, listening to the deafening sound of his galloping heart. _'Maybe I'm not ready for command, after all.'_

And, with an overwhelming surge of relief, he tapped the ensign on the back, relieving him, and slid into his chair gratefully, feeling suddenly reassured. The helm console was the simplest to read, and he took the ship in smoothly, as if he'd been trained to pilot Klingon battle cruisers his entire life.

"Five seconds," Tuscot announced. "Four. Three. Two–"

"Fire."

--

A heavy, warmer than human hand slid off his shoulder, as he whirled around and stared at his would be attacker. More accurately, they stared at each other in equal shock.

"Spock!"

"Jim!"

A thousand of things to say rushed through Kirk's mind, as their eyes refused to let go.

'_I'm so happy to see you!'_

'_I'm not a traitor__!'_

'_I'm so sorry I hurt you!'_

'_What are you doing here__?'_

'_I didn__'t think I'd ever see you again!'_

'_I–'_

He didn't say anything. He could only look, as a man who had spent a month in a desert would look at water – same longing, same trepidation. He drank at the sight, and his head began to sway, as if he was consuming some extremely potent alcohol.

Spock, on the other hand, couldn't prevent himself from blurting out so very illogical, irrational, unduly emotional – and very human notion.

"Jim – you're alive!"

Somehow, this non-accusatory, blatantly joyous exclamation brought an end to Kirk's reserve and he laughed in relief.

"Mr. Spock, you're a sight for sore eyes. How come you're here?"

Spock suddenly stiffened, as another person entered the room. Kirk spun around quickly and raised a dismissive hand.

"A friend," he said, as Mrat and Spock stared at each other appraisingly.

"I need to disarm the explosive," Spock informed no one in particular.

Whatever emotions were present a moment ago, they were now completely gone. He appeared concentrated and – forbidding. Kirk suppressed a sigh, while Mrat nodded at the Vulcan confidently.

"I'll help, I know the system."

"Very well. If you could adjust those monitors then and check the field density? We do not have much time."

He turned towards the reactor control panel, diving into the calculations the computer was showing him. Mrat nodded to Kirk briskly.

"Cover the doors."

Reluctantly, he walked towards them, despising the task. But, he knew, both Spock and Mrat were better suited for the delicate job of disengaging the ominous device from the warp core. He tried to focus on watching the empty corridor, but his mind was not on it, however hard he might have tried.

A commotion he heard suddenly from behind made him whirl around. He looked back to see Mrat holding Spock in a tight grip around his shoulders and pressing a disruptor to his temple.

For a moment, the sight struck him as being completely surreal. Could he be imagining things? After everything he'd been through recently that would not come as a galloping shock – to know that he could no longer distinguish reality and nightmares. Yet, even as the insane thought registered, his quickened pulse and the sinking feeling in his stomach told him in no uncertain terms that it was happening for real.

"Mrat, what are you doing?"

"One move from you and I'll shoot, Kirk," the Andorian informed him coolly.

Kirk stared at him in helpless amazement. "Have you gone mad? It's Mr. Spock, he's one of us, he's–"

"I know exactly who he is, Kirk. And how much the Klingons would pay for him, too. Dead or alive, they don't particularly care, so stay where you are."

"But you are with the Intelligence!" Kirk couldn't overcome his shock. "Have you lost your mind? Admiral Lewton–"

"Admiral Lewton should burn in your hell! He doesn't give a shit about his people, and he certainly didn't give a damn about me. He abandoned me, Kirk, he left me to rot."

"He probably thought you were dead."

"He has his eyes and ears everywhere! And let's face it, an Andorian hanging around a bunch of Klingons is pretty hard to miss. I've been his loyal operative for thirteen years, Kirk. And that one time I failed to call, he struck my name from his active list as if I never existed. I hanged around you because it was better than serving Vorog and his gang, but this," he shook Spock slightly, "this gives me a chance for life I've always wanted to have."

His fingers tightened on Spock's shoulder, and the Vulcan flinched quite noticeably, startling Kirk. Spock never showed such strong reaction to anything, unless he was in pain. With renewed anguish, Kirk stared into the Vulcan's pale face, searching for insights, but Spock appeared to be completely in control once again, suppressing whatever reaction Mrat's grip was invoking in him.

"Do you know how much they'd give for him, Kirk? I could buy myself a nice cozy planet. Darn it, I could probably buy a whole solar system."

Kirk moved instinctively, and the Andorian responded by pressing the disruptor harder to Spock's head.

"Uh-uh, don't even think of it. I'd put him out cold right now, but it's a long way to the emergency pods, and he's no cabaret nudie for me to carry him all the way."

Spock raised his eyebrow at this, as if saying, '_Indeed_.' Kirk was mildly relieved to see him in good spirits, but he would prefer if Spock so much as looked at him.

"You'll never get away with it, Mrat," he stated, trying to sound calm and confident. "You might not be too fond of Lewton, but you and I both know that he's nothing but efficient. He'll find you. Kidnapping a high ranking Starfleet officer for profit beats even the betrayal of your oath."

The Andorian smirked nastily, as if Kirk had just handed him an unexpected dessert.

"Oh, but he won't find me. He won't even be looking. You see, Kirk, I've transferred all control functions of this admirable explosive to the lower maintenance level and blocked them. No one can stop the explosion now. Very soon, the station will cease to exist and all of us will be declared casualties. Whether or not it'll start a war, I don't know and I don't particularly care, but nobody's gonna be looking for anyone that's for certain."

"He is quite correct regarding the explosive," Spock supplied levelly, as if discussing the latest set of readings he took on a planetary survey.

"Thanks, pointy ears," Mrat shook him in expression of his appreciation. Spock turned visibly pale at an alarming rate, but not a muscle flinched in his body. This time, his control did not give. The Andorian looked back at Kirk. "Smartass, isn't he?"

"Mrat, let him go," he hated the helpless position he was in.

"No. But if you don't want me to harm him, you will help us get the hell out of here."

Before Kirk could give him any answer, Spock interjected calmly, "You are mistaken if you believe him to put my well-being above his mission. He will not comply."

The words hurt, particularly at their truthfulness. Kirk bit his lip so hard it bled, without him noticing.

_He wouldn't even use my name to refer to me..._

"Won't he?" Mrat mocked his captive, his hand once again digging into Spock's flesh with unconscious force. "Perhaps you're right. But then, I need his help and I can always offer him a share of my prize, can't I?" he fixed Kirk with a challenging stare. "How about it, Human? Twenty percent of the reward, maybe even thirty if you could get us out of here. What say you?"

It was only then when Spock had finally looked at him. It was then when Kirk shuddered, unable to withstand the intensity of that gaze, the silent question repeated mutely, the cold irony, splashing in those dark eyes, and above all – the unbearable, undeniable understanding and acceptance of Kirk's actions, of his own fate. His gut wrenched, as Spock almost smiled at the predictability of yet another betrayal – a twitch of the thin lips, expressing self-irony on top of everything else, as if he was chiding himself half heartedly for being incapable of learning a most graspable lesson.

The disruptor pressed against his temple didn't matter; Mrat's grip on him didn't matter, nor did anything the Andorian was saying. The threat to his life was but a setting. It was all secondary, unimportant in comparison with that silent warp-speed communication that conveyed so much. The blue lips were moving, probably repeating his question or doubling the offer. Nobody heard it.

It was then when a phaser beam cut out both levels of reality, hitting the Andorian squarely in the head, knocking him out, making him drop his weapon. His grip on Spock, however, tensed instinctively, resulting in both of them falling backwards, hitting the cold floor hard.

Kirk spun around in amazement.

"Bones!"

It was indeed Doctor McCoy, standing in the doorway, a phaser still held tightly in his hand. He must have entered unnoticed while they had been preoccupied with each other. The wave of relief washing over Kirk was replaced instantly with alarm again, as a disruptor beam suddenly burst in from the corridor, missing the Doctor by inches.

"Get down!" Kirk yelled at him, rushing past him into the corridor. Only one Klingon was there and Kirk stunned him almost too easily. He waited a bit, listening intently, but no one else emerged from either end of the passageway.

Re-entering the room, Kirk saw the Doctor getting up to his feet. Reflexively, he offered him a hand, only then meeting his old friend's eyes. There were a lot of questions there, but mercifully no accusations and a lot of pure joy.

"Jim," McCoy breathed out, grasping his hand and allowing Kirk to lift him up to his feet. "What do you think of my marksmanship?"

"You have no idea how good it is to see you, Bones," Kirk grinned at him, relief flooding his voice.

Having obtained Mrat's weapon, Spock walked over to them, his gaze locked on McCoy. Instinctively, Kirk stepped back, giving him room, as he faced the Doctor squarely.

"Consider yourself on report, Doctor," Spock said in a deadly calm voice, which didn't prevent it from conveying his anger.

"You're welcome," McCoy grimaced.

"You deliberately defied my orders." A crack of the whip.

"I did nothing but followed my Captain's example." A challenge.

They were glaring at each other with focused intensity, as if nothing else existed around them. Kirk's mind exploded with questions, but he found he had insufficient time to voice them, even if they were willing to answer.

"And incidentally I have just saved your life, Spock!" McCoy fired at him triumphantly.

"How about the lives that are being in danger right now on the _Enterprise_?" Spock shot right back. "Did I not tell you that your services were more needed there?"

"And did _I_ not tell you that this might happen?" McCoy retorted, pointing at his shoulder, where moistly greenish circles started to surface on the gold fabric of his tunic.

"Bones, what's wrong with him?" Kirk asked in alarm, managing to insert the question in the vast phaser fire those two were throwing at each other.

"Nobody knows!" McCoy exploded. "Nobody goddamn knows what in blazes is wrong with this stubborn thick-headed–"

"That's enough!" Spock snapped, seemingly coming to his senses. He made a couple of steps back, as if in hopes that the distance might help him clear his mind. When he looked back at the still agitated Human, he appeared as cold and composed as ever. "We will have to deal with your insubordination later. Right now, we have to ensure the safety of the civilians."

Kirk shifted uncomfortably, realizing that Spock was still addressing all his comments to McCoy. If they knew, if they had figured out somehow that he was not a traitor, and that was obviously the case, then this controlled resentment would have to root entirely in the personal area. The area he was least confident about.

"They're still in that cargo hold?" McCoy asked, making a visible effort not to attack Spock again.

"Affirmative. You must get there and release the docking clamps."

"What do you mean 'you must'?" McCoy's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "We must all go, Mr. Spock. It's clear as a day nothing can be done here."

"I disagree," Spock replied flatly. "I shall explore the possibility of interrupting the block on the controls and attempt to defuse the bomb."

"But surely you must realize that's impossible," Kirk couldn't help it. Whether Spock wished to look at him or not, this was too important to let it go. "He transferred it down to low maintenance because he knew there's no computer terminal down there. He as good as grounded it permanently."

"I believe I can isolate the controls and reroute them manually," Spock said unabashed.

"But–"

The Vulcan turned squarely at him then, and all further protests died in Kirk's throat. He wasn't looking at his friend Spock anymore, he wasn't looking at his second-in-command, at his assignment partner or even at a stranger Vulcan. He was facing the entire amount of authority that was encompassed in the notion 'captain of the USS _Enterprise_.' It was eerie, like staring into a distorted mirror. And that mirror had told him clearly that arguments would bring him nowhere, once the decision was made.

"You will proceed immediately to the cargo hold and release it." That was neither an inquiry, nor a request. "Then, you will get to the emergency pods and leave the station."

"What about you, Spock?" McCoy asked quietly. There was no challenging in his tone this time, only regret. "Are you that willing to die?"

The Vulcan stared at him impassively. "It is my obligation to prevent destruction of the Federation property whenever possible. I believe it is still possible, Doctor. And I do not have a death wish."

The corner of McCoy's mouth twitched. "Could have fooled me."

But Spock refused to be provoked again.

"You have your orders. I suggest you take the advantage of the route being free," he nodded towards the deserted corridor, and turned, without further ado, to the Jefferies tube in the other end of the room, starting his descent.

"Let's go, Bones," Kirk tugged the somewhat dazed Doctor towards the doors. "Whether he succeeds or not, we don't have much time."

McCoy looked at him strangely, but complied without further objections.

As they rushed along the empty corridors, Kirk felt his joy upon seeing his friends again draining rapidly. He didn't feel happy anymore, he felt cold, detached, numb.

Dead.

Would he ever feel alive again?

The station floor trembled with an adherent, vast vibration. Their time was running out, and it soon wouldn't matter whether it was Spock or him, who actually did have a death wish.

"Come on, Bones," he urged his companion automatically. "Hurry up."

As they entered the docking level, their world exploded.


	21. The Wreckage

**Chapter 20**

**The Wreckage**

_Damage report._

The words echoed under his skull like a particularly powerful charge of thunder, meeting only silence and dissipating slowly in the orange-red rims of dull pain. Why didn't anyone answer? Wasn't he still in command? Last time he checked that was the case...

"Damage report," he repeated, this time aloud, and opened his eyes gradually.

Almost at once, he wished he didn't.

He was still on the Bridge, and, long as he had served aboard the _Enterprise_, he had never seen it in such a state. All around him, pieces of broken equipment were creating a most bizarre exposition. The air was thick with smoke rising from the burnt out panels; one of those was still on fire, hissing menacingly.

Scotty found himself lying beside the command chair. His whole body was sore, though he appeared not to have broken anything. Unlike Riley, he thought as the navigator drifted into his field of vision. He was breathing, but his arm was crooked in an unnatural angle.

Slowly, Scotty reached for the chair's arm and straightened up with difficulty, looking around. His Bridge officers were mostly motionless, lying where the last attack had put them; some were groaning. Some didn't stir at all.

"Damage report," Scotty said again automatically, without realizing he did it.

To his surprise, a voice came from behind, hoarse from inhaling combustion products, and slightly faltering, but recognizable still.

"Main power's out... we're on... auxiliary, Mr. Scott."

The Engineer looked back to see Ensign Chekov leaning heavily on the Science station console, his eyes glued to the monitor.

What was it that enabled him to be on his feet, when the rest of the Bridge crew struggled to regain consciousness, Scott wondered vaguely. Merely youthful resilience? Or did it have to do with that incredible stubbornness that the Ensign was notorious for? The _Enterprise_ was his first deep space assignment, yet after four months it took him to be selected for the main shift navigator, nobody was surprised by his inexhaustible resourcefulness anymore. McCoy claimed he showed signs of psychological stability uncommon for his age, _'and some of our senior officers would do well to adopt his poise,'_ the Doctor grunted, wrapping up his evaluation. Spock had asked him instantly, if he planned to apply this advice to himself, and the discussion heated up considerably, until Kirk was forced to intervene.

"We have minimal life support," Chekov continued, his voice getting more snuffling with each word.

He turned towards the Engineer, and Scotty flinched involuntarily, as he saw his face. It became instantly clear that Chekov was watching the scanners when the last blast had hit them, for he had a fat purple horizontal line across his face, and his nose – his nose was clearly broken.

"I'm all right," he assured Scott, despite his horrific appearance. "We don't have any communications," he added, gesturing towards the smashed station.

Scotty glanced at Lieutenant Warley's lifeless body, stretched on the deck. The halo of dark red and grey around his head left no doubts regarding his condition.

Thank God, Uhura wasn't here, he thought, shame and gratitude warring inside him. He snapped back to Chekov, pushing non-essential reflections aside.

"Sensors?"

The Ensign shook his head miserably.

"For how long have we been out?"

Chekov glanced at the chronometer and calculated quickly.

"About two minutes, Mr. Scott."

Scotty looked surprised. It felt like a lot longer.

"Then the battle still isn't over," he realized, his heart picking up the pace at once. "Can ye get the viewscreen back online?"

Chekov looked at the remains of the equipment dubiously. "I think so, sir."

"Do it."

While the young Ensign tucked into the task, Scotty made a quick tour around the Bridge, checking for casualties. Two crewmen were dead, including the Beta shift communications officer, three more severely wounded. The rest of them sustained various injuries, but were able to resume their stations, including Kevin Riley, whose broken arm was threatening to send him into a pain shock.

"Lucky for us the turbolifts are still working," Scotty told Lieutenant D'Amato, who was by far in the most optimal condition. "Get down to Engineering and grab a hold of Mr. Singh. I want a full report within five minutes."

"Yes, sir," D'Amato hurried off the Bridge.

"Mr. Riley," Scott called on to the navigator. "Get down to Sick Bay."

"Mr. Scott, I assure you, I can–"

"See if they can send a team up here," Scott cut him off.

Riley nodded. "Yes, sir."

"And get that arm treated," the Engineer added after him. "Lieutenant Masters," he strode over to her. She didn't reply, sitting on a step between the upper and the lower rim and nursing a bad cut on her head. Scotty bent over and shook her gently by the shoulder. "Charlene, are ye all right?"

She glanced up at him wildly, but then nodded, dropping her hand to her lap. The definition of 'all right' had shrunken considerably, they all knew that. Scott looked at her apologetically.

"I need someone to get to the armory and fetch us all some phasers."

"I'll do it, Mr. Scott," she got up to her feet at once, the abrupt motion making her sway.

Scotty caught her by the elbows, steadying her. "I'm sorry, lass, but–"

"It's all right," she smiled brilliantly, trying to diminish the raw anguish splashing in his eyes. "I know you need every hand. I'm really fine, sir. It's just a cut."

"Aye," he nodded, pretending to believe her. "Watch yer back."

She was right, he needed every hand, whatever their condition. They were beaten, shaken, hurt, and he couldn't provide medical help for them. More than that, he needed to make them forget about their wounds and do their jobs. He was the captain, and nothing was over yet. He couldn't afford sympathy, not right now, when they were about – or were already attacked again. He couldn't, and yet his insides were squirming unpleasantly every time he had to give an order to another injured crewmember instead of helping them.

And the ship felt... Not dead. Suspended was more like it. They had no sensors, no communications, no view even. Blind and deaf and – helpless. Scotty almost groaned in crushing frustration and almost physical longing. He needed to be in Engineering, he needed to see with his own eyes how badly they were hurt. But right now his place, as bizarrely as it sounded, was on the Bridge.

"You think they might board us, Mr. Scott?" DePaul asked nervously, bringing him out of his short reverie.

"They might already have," Scotty noted grimly. "Where's my screen, Chekov?"

"I'll try to reconnect the circuits now, sir," came the muffled reply. "Anything?"

"No – yes," Scotty nodded, watching the garbled image clearing slightly. "Another one should do it. What the hell–?"

They all stared at the screen raptly.

Before their very eyes, two Birds-of-Prey were moving towards each other in a collision course – and moving incredibly fast. One ship was doing summersaults in a wild trajectory, obviously out of control. The second had lost one of its 'wings', and tried desperately to maneuver out of the way, but apparently could not gather enough momentum.

"Mater Bozhi'a," Chekov muttered in stunned silence, captivated by the surreal vision. "This isn't happening."

"Aye, it is," Scotty replied quietly. "Mr. Sulu had been busy."

The next moment they all covered their eyes, as a magnificent explosion encompassed both Birds, wiping them out of existence in a halo of glory.

Just as the blinding blaze dissipated, they saw two remaining ships exchanging fire at a distance. One was leaking plasma from one of its nacelles. The other appeared to have a huge hole on its hull.

"Which one is ours?" Charlene Masters asked, stepping back into the Bridge with an armful of phasers. "Which one's Mr. Sulu's?"

Scotty glanced at Chekov, but the Ensign only shrugged helplessly.

"Without the sensors, I cannot tell..."

Except for the different kind of damage sustained, both ships were identical. The _Enterprise_ had been blind for too long to tell the difference by respected positions only. And now they had no sensors... and no communications.

"Well, whichever one is ours, they're gonna need our help," Scotty stated. "Mr. Chekov, take over Navigation."

"Mr. Scott," D'Amato came out of the turbolift, panting. "I've found engineer Singh. He dispatched the repair crews throughout the ship. He says the best he can give you now is one quarter impulse."

Scott acknowledged the information with a renewed frown.

"Chekov, plot a course towards them. Mr. DePaul, take us in slowly."

With an uncommon jolt, they moved forward. Reflexively, Scotty grabbed at the command chair's arm for balance, unwilling for some reason to sit down. Somehow, stepping off his feet at the moment seemed to be accepting defeat. He couldn't rationalize where the absurd notion was coming from, and didn't care, but didn't sit down, either.

"Do we have phasers, Mr. Chekov?"

"No, sir," the Ensign intoned nasally. "But we do have torpedoes. Only–"

"Only what, Mister?"

"Well, sir," Chekov shrugged helplessly. "How do we know which one?"

Which one? Scotty stared at the screen in desperation. Both ships were taking heavy damage. He had been through enough battle situations to be able to tell without sensors that for one of them it would be over pretty soon. One lucky shot was the only thing that stood between any of them and total oblivion. Which one? Which one?

"Mr. Chekov," suddenly inspired, Scott gripped the Ensign's shoulder tight. "Fire one torpedo exactly in front of them."

"In front of them, sir?"

"Aye. Be certain not to hit anyone."

Bewildered, Chekov complied. "What good will that do, sir?" he asked, as they watched the torpedo speeding away.

"We'll let Sulu know we still can bite," Scotty explained. "And that he oughtta give us some sign."

"What if instead we draw fire from the Klingons?" Chekov asked grimly. "We don't have any shields left. We'll be obliterated."

"Ye're too young to be a pessimist, lad," Scotty reproached him, watching the torpedo detonate. "Now see this."

But at first, it didn't look as if the adversaries had taken any notice of them at all, as they continued to fire at each other. Suddenly, the firing pattern of the Bird-of-Pray that was leaking plasma changed. It looked random at first, but in a split second, Chekov exclaimed excitedly, "It's them, Mr. Scott! It's them!"

"How do you know, Ensign?" DePaul asked, perplexed.

"Three dots – three dashes – three dots," Scotty nodded, grinning. "That's Sulu all right."

"And I know just who's firing those weapons," Chekov shook his head in admiration.

"Move us closer, helm," Scott ordered confidently. "Just a wee bit closer. Target their weapons system."

"Target lock does not work properly, Mr. Scott," Chekov reported, concerned. "I can't be sure–"

"Take yer best guess, lad."

Biting his lip resolutely, Chekov worked his console. "Target locked, sir."

"Fire torpedoes."

As if in slow motion, they watched six photon torpedoes spinning towards the Bird-of-Prey, as surely as sparks fly upward. But, before they hit, one particularly powerful shot had hit the forward section of the other ship, making it shudder, as violent charges enveloped its outer hull.

On the _Enterprise_ Bridge, several people gasped in horror.

"If only we had transporters..." Charlene moaned, clasping her hand to her lips.

Just as the torpedoes hit the Bird-of-Prey, Chekov exclaimed excitedly, "Mr. Scott! We've got internal sensors! I'm reading transport in progress!"

"What? D'Amato, confirm!"

Lieutenant D'Amato, who took over the Science station, was bending over the monitor, making feverish adjustments on the panel.

"Confirmed!" he shouted, just as the viewscreen went blindingly white, making the rest of them squirm. "Forty-eight – no, forty-nine life forms beaming aboard!"

"Are they Human or–?"

As they all turned to look at him, he straightened up to face them, the expression on his face one of utter awe mixed up with fear.

"I don't know, sir."

On the screen behind them, the second Bird-of-Prey exploded in a spectacular fountain of white flames.

--

Sorting out through the maze of wiring and circuits wasn't easy, especially in his position. Spock was lying inside an inclined tube, which wasn't meant to be used this way at all in the first place. What was more, he was lying head down, trying to ignore the persistent throbbing sensation in his temples, telling him he was nearing the state of collapse. But he couldn't abandon his task, there was too much depending upon it.

A piece of equipment slipped out of his slightly shaky fingers, and Spock suppressed a sigh. Quite illogically, he wished Mr. Scott were here. The Engineer had an unsurpassed talent for hand work. Perhaps he could have finished the task faster.

Putting the rebellious piece in place, Spock stared at it frowning. It wasn't going to work. What made him even try? Was it sheer stubbornness, unbecoming a Vulcan, but so much suiting a Human? By disregarding the logical and consequently more safe course of action – what was he really trying to accomplish? To preserve Federation property? Or to send a signal, loud and clear, _I do not follow you any more?_

Not true. He shook his head slowly, trying to counteract the physical effects of his position. The situation was indeed salvageable. He was familiar with the station technical schematics, and he had examined the device – it was not of an entirely uncommon type. Mrat did a most thorough job in binding the control circuits and rerooting them out of reach, but it was also the most simplistic scheme. At the top of his mind, Spock could devise at least three ways of counteracting the damage. The only thing that rendered his action unreasonable was the time factor. He was drawing a thin line there.

He reached decisively for the next conglobulation, hearing the thin whine of the explosive. So close, he was so close. And the bomb was close to setting off, too. He wondered if the Humans managed to release the docking clamps by now. He wondered if they would follow his orders further.

_Jim..._

He shoved the thought rapidly to the back of his mind. No time. If Vulcan ever had been a harbor to any deities, Spock would have called on to all of them by now.

He felt disgusted with himself. Yes, he felt. Buried deep inside the technical tunnels of the space station, where no one ever went, alone, tête-à-tête with his own self only, he could acknowledge to experiencing emotion. He made one of the most common mistakes. Instead of dealing with it, he suppressed it. And that emotion was not a good one.

He felt so much ashamed of himself. Both Humans had been far more efficient in controlling their emotions than he, a Vulcan, was. That openly joyous exclamation when he first saw Jim alive was bad enough, but to a point understandable. The ensuing unjustifiable anger was much worse. Even as his fingers were working rapidly on the wiring, his mind squirmed in revulsion, which he couldn't control either.

He pulled his rank on Jim. As incredibly as it sounded, he did, and what was more, what was far worse than that, he enjoyed it. Just for once to see _that_ Human obeying _his_ orders, not vice versa. Where did that come from? When did he ever strive for control? He was hurt and he wanted to strike back. It was unbecoming, unnatural and repugnant. He was acting like a...

Human.

He was acting like a Human.

Spock gritted his teeth and tried to change his breathing pattern to achieve some level of tranquility, but either his condition – and conditions prevented him from reaching less agitated state, or he lost his hold of the technique.

He strived for control, yes. For control over his own conflicting emotions. He strived for that control all his life, and, in the later years, he almost began to believe he achieved it. He was so proud – and shouldn't that have been a warning? – of his actions during the transportation of the diplomats to Babel. He took great pride in being able to demonstrate his impeccable logic to his father, to prove him wrong in distrusting Spock to become a true Vulcan. He took pain in defying his mother, yet pleasure in believing his father would have approved. It was simply fortunate that Jim and the Doctor had found a way to stop him in this illogical crusade of logic that would have cost his father his life.

He was deluded. He had left Vulcan nineteen years ago, he had made a satisfactory career, he had gained respect of his fellow officers and superiors. Yet, these accomplishments did not spare him the truth he was forced to face when his parents had stepped aboard the _Enterprise_. He was still a child, trying to earn their approval. How was it possible to be both at the same time? Sarek was oblivious to this, but Amanda saw it. As did Jim.

Jim, who not only saw this much faster than Spock did, but understood and accepted. Who had found a way to save not only his father's life, but Spock's pride as well. Who had never once admitted to him it was a ploy. Who had later spent hours with his parents, filling them in thoroughly, if unobtrusively, on Spock's accomplishments on board, on how grateful he was for the Vulcan's presence at his side, how much appreciated it.

It was hard to believe it was the same man, who confronted him in the Transporter Room.

Spock reached for the next layer of circuits, marveling at the complexity of the device. He barely had fifty seconds now. His fingers started to get numb, yet he willed them to action, quickening his movements.

Jim Kirk had always tested his control, as if he was specifically designed for that purpose. Sometimes willingly, sometimes involuntarily, but he tried it constantly nonetheless. Persistently. Expertly. With pleasure. After that conversation, Spock had nearly lost it. He was a virus, Jim was a virus. Sometimes dormant, sometimes active, he effectively infected Spock's system, and no measure of control, no treatment could exorcise him out. He was a force of nature, defying all logic and rationale thrown against him. Defying a lifetime of training. Much like... Spock's eyes widened at the accuracy of the comparison.

Much like Pon Farr.

He shook his head, counting seconds. All that was left to him was the resemblance of control and poise. Quite irrationally, but now, as the last moments of his life were slipping away, he wished nothing more but to return back in time just several minutes, reset the action, appear, if not be, more Vulcan than Human in his last ever interaction, preserve some air of dignity.

Reset...

Reset!

He could not disarm the device in time, not from here, but he could reset its timer, make it go extra round, buy them all some time!

His hands began to work feverishly, motions blurry, all conscious thought cleared out of his mind, as he concentrated fully on the task. Twenty seconds to detonation. Just another junction. Fifteen. Here, reverse polarity. Ten. Reconnect the channels. Seven. Apply multitasker. Five. Switch. Three. Close.

One.

Spock froze, listening intently.

Nothing happened.

He listened harder than ever, sensitive to the slightest variation in the warp reactor humming. Nothing happened. He had succeeded. By crude estimation, he now had twenty three minutes and forty seconds to defuse the bomb.

Careful not to disturb the hastily made resequencer, he reached for the smooth walls of the tube and began to slide down.

--

As they reached the docking level, their world exploded with vast disruptor fire.

"Get back!" Kirk shouted, pushing McCoy behind, as he himself lunged forward.

"How many?" McCoy yelled, as he and Jim were taking turns in firing back, grounded on either side of the doorway.

"Ten or so," Kirk panted.

"It's no use, Jim," the Doctor complained after a particularly well aimed beam missed his face by mere inches. "We have to find another way!"

"There is no other way!" Kirk shook his head desperately. "We've got to find a way to get through them!"

"Dammit, I'm a doctor, not a commando!" McCoy exploded. "Ten Klingons with heavy arms are just _slightly_ above my realm of possibility. See, if they were only nine, I might have tried to take them, but as they are ten–"

Kirk glanced sideways at him worriedly, not certain if the Doctor had slipped into hysteria. He didn't like that sardonic sneer on his face for sure, but...

"Bones!" he exclaimed in sudden inspiration. "You're a doctor!"

It was McCoy's turn to throw wary glances at him.

"Damn straight, so what?"

"Do you have your medical kit?"

"Sure, why?"

"Any tranquilizers in it?"

"Yeah, but – oh!" comprehension dawned on his face. "I've got zepponine in capsules. When vaporized, it's gonna act like an overly potent sleeping pill."

"That'll do. For how long can you hold your breath?"

"For whatever long it takes to cross that corridor," McCoy grunted crustily. "I still have to pass the test for physical fitness to be able to serve aboard a starship, you know."

"Don't get defensive, Doctor. On three then, throw it in."

"Jim, your shooting must be precise, or–"

"Do you doubt _my_ marksmanship?" Jim grinned at him, straightening up. "Ready? One, two, three!"

Time slowed down for McCoy as he leapt from behind his cover and threw the capsule high into the air. At the same moment, Jim dived into an instant shoulder roll, opening somewhere in the middle to take aim and shoot, before rolling over to the Doctor's side.

"Cover your mouth!" McCoy yelled at him, taking a deep breath and holding it, his own hand pressed tightly to his mouth and nose.

Following him suit, Kirk got up to his feet, listening. The fire ceased almost at once, and as they began to hear the sound of several heavy slumps, he motioned the Doctor to his feet. As fast as they could, they ran through the now silent corridor, stepping over motionless bodies. It seemed the longest run McCoy could ever remember himself taking, but, just as his lungs began to ache from oxygen deprivation, they had reached the other end.

"Oh God," McCoy bent over his knees, gulping the air, as the door slid shut behind them. "Remind me to leave the fight-and-flight to you and Spock from now on."

Kirk glanced up at him, breathing heavily as well. "Done," he panted, locking the door. "Come on, let's get to that cargo hold."

"I hope they won't be waiting for us there," the Doctor grumbled.

"I don't think Vorog has that many crewmen to spare."

McCoy looked sidelong at him, but, apparently, he couldn't restrain himself from asking the question.

"Jim, what is the meaning of all this? How did you end up with these people? Spock says you're not a traitor, and God knows, I couldn't make myself believe it in the worst times, but I don't understand any of it. Whose game is it? Why–"

Kirk caught McCoy's arm. "Spock said that?"

The Doctor sighed. "You didn't think you could fool _him_ for long, did you? Anyway, why–"

"Bones, I'll explain everything, I promise," Kirk said hastily. "But now's not the time. Give me a hand with this thing."

Together, they opened up the docking control panels and proceeded to manually release the clamps. It was a physically demanding task, considering that it was rarely done by hand. But since Vorog was unlikely to give the proper computer command, they didn't have much choice.

"There, that should do it," Kirk declared, checking the console. He was panting, sweat streaming down his face. "Step back, Bones."

A rasp metallic sound assaulted their ears, as the cargo holder was finally set loose. For a couple of moments, they were simply standing there, side by side, watching it drift away from the station through a transparent bland veil of an emergency forcefield. At last, McCoy sighed.

"Well, mission accomplished. I wonder how Spock's doing."

Kirk shrugged, looking away. "Judging from the fact that we didn't blow up yet, I'd say he was right about the bomb."

"But he should have called us by now. It's not like Spock to go quietly," McCoy flipped open his communicator, looking grim. "McCoy to Spock. Respond, Captain."

Kirk couldn't help flinching at this form of address being applied to Spock. McCoy did it so casually, so... used to. Had it really gone that far?

"Spock?" McCoy tried again, his anxiety growing. "Spock, blast your pointy ears, pick up the phone!"

"Perhaps he can't answer, Bones."

"That, or he simply ignores me," McCoy sighed, closing the channel.

"He's angry."

"No kidding."

"Bones," Kirk paused, choosing his words carefully. "Why have you defied his orders?"

McCoy glanced at him sharply.

"If you think he's angry with _me_, Jim, think again."

"Bones," a warning.

"I wasn't the one who manipulated him without a second thought, who made him doubt himself, who went out of his way to make him put his heart on his sleeve only to dismiss it as laughable and tiring! Do you have any idea what you've made him go through? For your information, it's not the first time I suspect him to have suicidal intentions."

"Bones, that's enough!" blood pumping in his veins loudly, heart making wild jolts in the region of his throat, he slammed his fist hard into the wall. He didn't want to hear it. "You have no idea what you're talking about! I had my reasons," the last one came as a whisper.

"I sure as hell hope so, Jim. And they'd better be damn good ones, too."

Turned out, they had become too careless. The last thing Kirk remembered clearly, was turning towards the enraged Doctor with some protest ready on his lips, when a stunning beam caught him, making speech and movement impossible. _You fool_, he thought, not being sure, who he was addressing, and then the reality quit on him.

--

Wounded.

Wounded, injured, hurt people. Suffering became a physical substance in the corridors flanking the Transporter Room, enveloping everyone like a strangling thick blanket.

The first person who made a connection with his assaulted nerves was Christine Chapel. Bending over the injured crewmen, she apparently was sorting them into light/severe/critical categories, every now and then pressing a hypo or helping them assume a more comfortable position. She was blackened by smoke, her uniform was torn in several places and her hair was a complete mess, but she moved relentlessly from one crewmember to another, as if incapable of stopping. Giotto was hovering over her, watching over his people.

"Scotty!" her head snapped up as she saw him.

"Aye, lass. It's damn good to–"

"Help Uhura," she cut him off, not leaving her patient. "She's still in the Transporter Room, I think she has a report for you."

"Aye," Scotty nodded, somewhat taken aback. "Chekov, help the Nurse here. And somebody fetch Doctor M'Benga!"

As the Ensign hurried over to Christine, who gasped mildly seeing his face, Scott turned towards the Transporter Room, watching the last party emerging from there.

Uhura was leaning heavily on the console, obviously favoring her right leg, covered in crude bandages. Her head was bent low, as she and Kyle studied the panel intently.

"What's up, lassie?" Scott asked, coming over. "Where's Mr. Sulu?"

Uhura rounded on him starkly, and he winced at the sight of her face. It was covered in dust and ashes and blood oozing from a nasty cut on her cheek, with only her eyes shining brightly from a horrific mask, and beneath them, two streams of transparent liquid were glistening, adding the final ominous touch.

"He's gone, Mr. Scott," she whispered huskily. "It was such a mess on that Bridge. He was the last one to leave and... and now Mr. Kyle can't... he can't..."

"I can't find him, sir," Kyle confirmed her report miserably. "There's nothing to lock on to."

As if on cue, Uhura's restraint gave, and she collapsed, being caught by Scott just before she hit the deck.

"Easy, lass," he murmured, lifting her up in his arms and rocking her slightly. "It's gonna be all right. All right."

But she just buried her face in his chest and wept, as if knowing that he couldn't make it come all right ever again. Nobody could.

"Mr. Scott," Chekov's snuffling voice called on to him from behind. Turning to look at him, Scotty knew instantly by the grave haunted expression in his eyes that he had heard of his friend's fate. "A call from the Bridge, sir," he handed him an open communicator. "The sensors are partially working now. Three ships entering the area. They're Starfleet."

Scotty wanted to laugh, but a seizure made his breath catch, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. So now they send in the cavalry. What perfect timing.

"Get back to DePaul," he told Chekov resolutely. "Tell him to put communications on priority. I dinna want to be summoned to my own court-martial in Morse code."

"Sir, Mr. DePaul says we don't have enough power yet."

"Well, then tell him, he can turn into a spare battery himself, but I want communications operational by the time I get to the Bridge, is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Chekov snapped to attention, then added warily, "When will that be, sir?"

Scotty sighed, looking at the limp body in his arms. What they needed most were communications, and their Communications Officer had just passed out from injuries, overstrain and grief.

"Shortly," Scott said, readjusting her position gently. "I'll be there in no time at all."

Glancing sympathetically at Uhura, Chekov nodded grimly and rushed out of the room.

--

"Welcome back, Kirk."

God, he hated that voice.

"Now be brave, Human. There's no point pretending, I know you're awake."

Reluctantly, Jim opened his eyes to find Vorog staring down at him, his gaze not promising. Glancing sideways, Kirk realized he was back in command center again.

"So you have decided you could betray us and get away with it," Vorog intoned with barely controlled fury. As he stepped back, Kirk saw McCoy in the chair opposite him, similarly restrained. "Tell me, Kirk. What have I done to make you think I'm stupid?"

Jim raised his head at this, meeting his eyes.

"You haven't done anything to convince me otherwise."

He expected a blow, and was not surprised when it came. A jet of blood shot into the air, as the skin of his cheek blew out, when a hand in metallic glove hit it. There was a peculiar, albeit familiar, ring under his skull, and Kirk almost welcomed it.

"You're going to die very soon, Kirk," Vorog hissed angrily.

"So are you," he countered. "You can't stop the bomb and you have nowhere to escape."

"Perhaps," the Klingon eyed him carefully. "But we have some time to spare, and I can guarantee you an interesting death and a show."

"Show?"

"Yes, show, Kirk. You see, while you've been so busy setting your precious civilians free, we managed to bring back online one weapons system. Looks like Mrat wasn't as efficient in destroying targets as he wanted us to believe."

Kirk felt his heart sink. "What are you going to do?"

"Why, fire it, of course. This container hold looks like a perfect target to me," he nodded at the large viewscreen where the cargo hold was sliding away slowly. "Big, slow, not maneuvering. Even Mrat couldn't miss."

"Where's Mrat?" Kirk asked, playing for time.

"Oh, I'm done with him already. He told be all about your mission, my dear Captain."

"He told you?" devious as Mrat was, his resentment of Vorog was obvious.

"Oh yes," the Klingon sneered. "With a little persuasion."

Following his gaze, Kirk suddenly shuddered, as he saw a device that had become so blatantly familiar to him. A mind sifter.

"You killed him," he whispered. "To extract information."

"An unfortunate side-effect," Vorog agreed. "If I didn't need it so badly, the Andorian would have known what it means to betray me. You, on the other hand, can tell me nothing new. And since we have a short time before we all die, I'm going to enjoy every minute of it. Bring him up!" he waved briskly to his men.

Touragh and another Klingon came over to him, dragging him up and tugging him to the weapons console.

"Untie him."

It was done. Kirk looked at Vorog in wary bewilderment.

"What do you want from me?"

"A show, Kirk," Vorog hissed in his face. "You came to us claiming you've betrayed the Federation, but it turns out you only betrayed me. I want you to die as a real traitor, Kirk. You will fire on your people."

The incredible nature of the statement made Kirk laugh.

"Are you insane, Vorog? Why on earth would I do that?"

Vorog studied his face intently, as if he was some intriguing specimen.

"Have you ever seen the mind sifter in action, Kirk?"

Jim flinched, forcing himself to remain silent. Vorog smirked wickedly. "I thought you haven't. Now we can't let you die ignorant, can we? Touragh!"

With a sickening, gut wrenching feeling, Kirk watched as Touragh positioned the device on the level with McCoy's head. The Doctor locked gazes with him, and Kirk shivered. There was fear, in those bright blue eyes, but also, in much greater quantities, determination.

"Don't do it, Jim," McCoy spoke quietly. "We're all gonna be dead soon anyway. It doesn't matter how–"

At Vorog's nod, Touragh pressed the button, and the Human's head snapped back in agony, sweat breaking on his forehead, his mouth falling open without uttering a sound. Forgetting himself, Kirk sprang towards him, evading the eager arms waiting to intercept him, seeing nothing, but the source of his friend's torture.

"No, don't stun him!" Vorog yelled. "We don't have time! Knock him off! I want him conscious, damn it!"

They caught him fast, of course, but not before he knocked the mind sifter over. Several heartfelt blows, delivered by enthusiastic hands, and he was brought to face Vorog once again.

"You still think you can play tricks on me, Kirk," the Klingon hissed furiously. "Let me be clear. You have ruined everything I tried to achieve. You and your blasted ship will be forever damned by my people. I have worked for months and months to create this network, I have fought to bring us this war, yet you – you destroyed my life's dream."

"Your life's dream would have meant millions of lives lost!" Kirk exploded. "You're not a noble warrior, Vorog, you're a mass-murderer!"

A snort came suddenly from behind them, making everyone turn.

Face flushed, eyes wide and red, hair disheveled, Leonard McCoy stared back at them and laughed. Kirk felt the hair on the back of his neck stand upright.

"What's so funny?" Vorog spat, his eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You," McCoy offered and laughed again. "You, Vorog – that's your name? A mass-murderer, really? Jim, he doesn't have the guts to kill those people, that's why he needs you to do it."

"Bones..."

"Are you calling me a coward, Human?"

"Looks like I am," McCoy's eyes glinted, quickly turning the color of fine steel. "You can't kill a bunch of defenseless civilians, can you? If they could fight you, resist you, if they could so much as defend themselves, you would have fired already, wouldn't you? But to fire at them like that doesn't sound like your dream coming true. Why are you with this scum? Weren't good enough for the regular service?"

"Bones," Kirk groaned, watching Vorog's eyes filling with blood, and wishing McCoy would shut up.

"You will die a terrible death, Human," Vorog told him, quivering with rage. "You have only been exposed to 0.5 setting. Do you know what it'll do to you at 1?"

"I can't wait to find out," McCoy challenged.

Kirk closed his eyes. He knew what the Doctor was up to, and he knew he would probably have done the same. But that part was the easiest. He wouldn't have to watch.

"Set it back," Vorog ordered, nodding towards the device that Kirk had knocked down. "And after we're done with you, I'll destroy that container. And you, Kirk, you watch. You could have spared your friend this. You lost that chance."

Kirk's eyes met McCoy's, and as the Doctor smiled at him, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Bones. I'm so sorry."

He wasn't talking about their present situation, and McCoy seemed to understand that. "Don't worry, Jim boy. It ain't over for you yet."

"No," Kirk shook his head. "It's not."

At Vorog's command, Touragh pressed the button.

--

In the end, the solution appeared to be embarrassingly simple. The explosive was devised to be using the antimatter from the main reactor.

Cut power.

Cut main power, and the bomb would turn off by itself. It would be possible to dismantle it before reactivating the main power grid.

Now, if he could only create a short-circuit in the main connection, it would all be possible.

Three minutes, fifty-one second to go.

Take down the cover. Careful. Open the matter channel. Do not touch. Connect the outgoing wires that control the stream density.

Two minutes, forty-eight seconds.

Take down the cover. Careful. Open the antimatter channel. Mind the screening. Do not disturb it. Find the outgoing wires, controlling the stream density. Connect them. Connect them...

Connected.

One minute, thirty-four seconds.

Create a short circuit between the two. The wiring was so thin, so delicate. A simple electrical charge would do it. The endings were charged. If he could only make them connect directly.

Spock straightened up as best he could, staring at two pieces of wiring in growing desperation. He had to make them contact each other, then the electrical charge would inevitably ensue. But they weren't long enough. There were approximately fifty centimeters of space between them. He needed a conductor.

Glancing around, he realized how close he came to a failure. All the components he saw around were made of dielectrics, specifically to avoid the reaction he was trying to create. He looked around, already knowing that he would find nothing, as his memory conveniently supplied him with complete catalogue of the materials used to build this part of the station. If only he had some water...

Water.

Spock's heart gave a leap, and he blinked.

He didn't have any water, he had something better – water, heavily uploaded with copper. And copper, as his memory again came to his aid, was the second best conductor known to Federation science.

Fifty-eight seconds to detonation.

Quickly, but without undue haste, he tore apart his tunic and his undershirt. His fingers gripped firmly at the artificial skin, the Doctor had covered his wound with, and made a forceful decisive tug. Blood shot from reopened wound, streaming down his chest and his arm, and he quickly checked his time limits.

Forty seconds to detonation.

Thirty-seven seconds to the loss of consciousness.

Quickly, but carefully, Spock collected the hot liquid in his palm, dipped his fingers in it, like an artist scooping paint, and drew a wide straight line between two sets of connected wiring. Again and again, until he saw that the length was sufficient. Carefully, he placed one set of wiring into the liquid, then straightened up to reach for another.

Life was draining rapidly out of him, with each pumping beat of his heart, but he couldn't spare any bit of concentration to even attempt to slow his pulse. His head was spinning as it was, his coordination faltering. When he finally grabbed the second set, his hand was shaking so badly, he was afraid he would not be able to place it accurately into the connecting substance.

Eleven seconds to detonation.

Eight seconds to the loss of consciousness.

With one final effort, he lowered the wiring into the liquid and rolled away from it, listening to the crackles of electricity, emerging from his primitive conductor. The chamber lightened up with sparkles, shooting in all directions. A long low sound came from somewhere above, and then the barely perceptible vibration of the deck, indicating the working reactor, ceased.

The whole station slid suddenly into lifeless darkness, but Spock didn't see it. His own darkness swallowed him precisely three seconds before the reactor stopped.


	22. Processing

**Chapter 21**

**Processing**

It was very late in the ship's night, when Scott found himself entering Sick Bay. Unlike two nights ago, it was quieter now, with lights dimmed and the equipment making its whispering soothing noises. No alarms were screaming, no voices shouting. It was quiet and dark.

He passed the recovery ward, where the majority of beds were still occupied by injured crewmembers, but none of them were in danger any longer. He hesitated a moment, glancing at Sulu, sleeping peacefully, his features soft and relaxed. The Helmsman looked like a kid in his sleep, Scott thought. Vulnerable. Disconcerting.

His mind drifted involuntarily two days back, to the still crippled Bridge, when they had no idea of what happened to Sulu.

"_Ships within range, sir," Chekov reported from Navigation. _

"_Identification?" _

"_The _Lexington_, the _Potemkin_ and the_ Mount Fuji_."_

"_Damn," Scott cursed. The _Lexington_ was assigned to the Intelligence. "How're my communications?"_

"_We can't hail them, sir, but we can respond," Uhura said, hovering over the mess that ensued on her console. After receiving a stimulant from an irate Doctor M'Benga, she insisted on returning to the Bridge. She glanced at the Engineer pointedly. "They are hailing."_

_Scott sighed. "On screen."_

_Just as he had expected, Admiral Lewton appeared on the viewscreen, scowling and forbidding. Scotty didn't know what possessed him to do it, but, before the Admiral had said so much as a hello, he stepped forward, rushing to speak. _

"_Before ye get yer dogs off, Admiral, ye might wanna dispatch one of those ships, better two, to the Sherman's planet. There's a mighty big chance it's gonna be attacked."_

"_My dogs, Mr. Scott?" Lewton repeated with a frown. "From the looks of your navigator, I'd say you need a sanitation team. We have already sent two ships to the Sherman's planet, but thanks for the timely warning." _

"_Admiral, we did try to raise Starfleet Command–"_

_Lewton cut him off unceremoniously, "Where's your Captain?"_

"_Beamed to the station," Scott grunted. "There was an explosive in the reactor chamber, and he thought–"_

_Lewton raised up a hand, stopping him, as if Scott's words had been enough to paint the picture. _

"_Our scans show you have no warp drive."_

"_Aye."_

"_How are your people?"_

_Scott blinked. It was the last question he could have expected from Lewton. _

"_Mighty shaken, but–"_

"_How many, Mr. Scott?"_

_The Engineer looked down for an instant, then lifted his gaze back to Lewton resolutely. _

"_Twenty-seven. And one missing."_

"_Someone's going to have a lot to answer for," the Admiral remarked quietly. Suddenly, his demeanor changed almost imperceptibly, his eyes twinkled. "That one missing crewmember wouldn't happen to be one Lieutenant Sulu, would he?"_

"_Aye," Scotty's face lightened up. "But how'd ye know?"_

"_We picked up a Klingon escape pod, and were surprised to discover the Lieutenant inside."_

"_Is he all right?" Chekov and Uhura blurted out simultaneously._

_Lewton favored them with a lenient glance. "To quote your current captain, he's shaken, but that's about it. He's being checked out by our doctor."_

"_Thank God," Uhura whispered, sinking back into her chair. Chekov grinned happily, regretting it almost at once, as his torn facial muscles gave a jolt of pain. _

He remembered how the part of the crew that was still capable of maintaining an upright position, greeted the lucky Helmsman when he was beamed aboard from the _Lexington_. They had nearly strangled him, while he was gibbering explanations and thanks. The Klingon transporter gave up on him, just as he had sent the last of his people back to the _Enterprise_, and her sensors were still too weak to penetrate the screening all the debris was creating. He was hurt, tired and utterly dazed by the way his first command had gone, but he found it within himself to smile, and even make jokes about Chekov's 'criminal' appearance.

Scott shook his head slightly and moved on. Sulu had been one hell of a lucky devil. And he had only lost two people.

Scott sighed. They had been on their way to Starbase 23 yet again. Debriefing. Refit. Rotation. He wished he could draw reassurance from the fact that the _Enterprise's_ engines would most likely be fully operational before they reached their destination. But, even as the ship was beginning to look more and more like herself, and life was gradually returning back to normal, he couldn't get rid of a certain feel of unease that ate at him persistently. With Uhura back aboard and Chekov receiving a clean health bill, not to mention the squadron of ships escorting them towards the base, Scott found he had time to take full control of Engineering and supervise the repairs personally. It kept him occupied throughout the day, but it couldn't rid him of some uncharacteristic restlessness, dominating in his mood.

He sighed again, anticipating the conversation that awaited him. He didn't have a chance to say more than three words at once to McCoy since the Doctor had beamed back aboard, weary and frustrated. No, Scott thought, frustrated was an understatement. McCoy was positively berserk, but he had to keep his mood in check, treating the wounded. He was effective as usual, but as his duties were occupying his conscious mind, Scott sensed he, too, was sliding rapidly to the same state of tugging unrest. Maybe even to a greater extent.

As he entered the Doctor's office, McCoy glanced up at him once, then returned his gaze to a half-emptied glass on the desk in front of him. Silently, Scott walked over and sat down opposite him. For several long moments, no one disturbed the uneasy silence. Finally, McCoy spoke, without any expression.

"Can't sleep?"

Scott nodded once, staring at his hands lying in his lap.

"Aye."

"Me neither."

The silence continued, wrapping them like a think, heavy blanket. Gathering up his courage, Scott hesitated, then blurted out, "I'm sorry, Doctor."

Surprised, McCoy looked up at him, his puzzlement clear.

"For what?"

"Tonia – Yeoman Barrows," the Engineer averted his eyes. "I sent her to man that phaser control station."

McCoy stared at him blankly.

"It's not your fault. It was battle."

"Aye, but..." he didn't quite know what to say.

McCoy's involvement with the lovely Yeoman was curt, but sweet. They parted amicably, unlike some of his previous romances, and the Doctor's lingering tenderness towards her had been obvious.

"She died quickly though," Scott said and cursed himself instantly. What good would that information do? He was bad at this...

McCoy rubbed his eyes tiredly, his hand still covering them, when he said, "Yes, she died quickly. She didn't suffer." He dropped his hand and gazed unseeingly at the opposite wall. "I wonder how to tell her Mom though."

Scott knew McCoy wasn't expecting an answer, yet he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his exhaustion catching up with him. Silently, McCoy reached for the second glass, poured it and slid over to the Engineer, without looking at him. Scott stared at the deep purple liquid, without much gusto. He didn't feel like drinking. That was the drill, though.

"They go young," McCoy whispered. "Don't they?" Brusquely, he turned to meet the Engineer's gaze. "You and I – how many springs have we seen? How many Christmas' celebrated?"

"We've seen them all, Doctor."

"Not all," McCoy gave a light shake of his head. "Far from all, but enough. And what have they seen, Scotty?"

There was no answer to that, and, as if seeking release from the painful reflections, McCoy changed the topic abruptly.

"You're mad at me for jumping ship without telling you."

That was not a question. Scott gave a little shrug.

"I was," he admitted. At the moment, he found it hard to be mad about anything. Strangely, it seemed like the battle had happened some time during his past lifetime. It seemed so vague, in comparison to what it had left behind.

McCoy sighed.

"Well, I'm sorry. If that's any help, Spock's already promised to put me on report for that."

Scott glanced up at him.

"I dinna think he's gonna do that."

"You don't know how stubborn he can get."

"Aye, I do."

A new layer of charged silence encompassed them. The conversation didn't want to flow. Scott took a sip of his drink.

"Ye've seen the Captain."

McCoy chuckled humorlessly.

"Oh, yes, I have. The Captain's been on a highly classified Intelligence mission, as I'm sure everybody knows by now. He was ordered to act the way he did, he was ordered to do what had to be done. And he... he looks awful, Scotty."

"The crew's mighty happy he's back, ye know. Beats me if I ken how they heard. They say he's ruined the Klingon conspiracy to destroy the Federation. They're proud of him."

"They are young," McCoy drawled tiredly. "All they need is a hero to worship. And Jim is – Jim is 'Starfleet's finest.'" He grimaced. "But I'm not eighteen, Scotty. I'm not even twenty-five. I want to know what happened, but I'm told to wait for the debriefing. There we will be told everything. And for now I should just sit here and count the bodies."

"It wouldda helped if Mr. Spock were here. The crew's... sorta headless."

The Doctor's features creased in revulsion.

"Admiral Lewton is too interested in Spock to let him out of his sight. His CMO refuses to tell me anything about his condition. Now, I know that stubborn Vulcan, and I know what he's capable of pulling through, but I'd still like to _see_ that he's fine with my own eyes," he spilled some of his drink in agitation. "That blasted woman is as tight-lipped with me as an Aldebaran shellfish."

A tiny grin surfaced in the corner of Scott's mouth, his eyes twinkled.

"Might have something to do with ye calling her an idiot to her face?"

McCoy blushed, dropping his gaze to his now locked hands.

"You've heard of that?" he sighed. "I was so desperate to get to him, Scotty. I didn't even know she was there."

_It had been a series of short images__, coming back to him real-time. Vorog nods to his accomplice. The lights go out. Screams, yells, disruptor shots fill the room. He's knocked out, then dragged to his feet and shoved out into the corridor. Jim shoots the lock on the door, then turns and yells at him for stupid bravado, his face looks eerie in the bluish reserve lights. Jim's hands on his shoulders, whirling him round, reaching for his wrists, untying him. A run. A dark, seemingly endless gangway. Murky general area. Security guards materializing suddenly all around them. _

_Jim seems to know what's happening, he shouts for Admiral Lewton, as the guards shout at him to drop the weapon. Lewton comes with the next wave and rushes over to Jim, his voice strained as he repeats over and over again, 'The names, Kirk! __Do you have the names?'_

_What names? But Jim nods, though he doesn't comply instantly. 'Spock's somewhere in the reactor chamber, Admiral. He stopped the bomb, but we can't reach him, he might be in trouble.'_

_Lewton grabs his shoulders and shakes him thoroughly. 'We don't have the time! The names – now!'_

_Jim stiffens. And the next moment he speaks the name of the CINC. Lewton is stunned, so is McCoy. The Admiral comes to his senses first. _

'_That explains it. The suicidal order to leave the Sherman's planet. I told Cartwright. But the man's so virulent in obeying orders, he just wouldn't listen.'_

'_Mr. Spock, Admiral,' Jim insists quietly. 'I need to find him.'_

'_No, you and I will beam back immediately and work with Commander Solange. This needs to be taken care of at once.'_

_McCoy stares blankly at the man who comes forward at these words. Dark, non-descriptive features. Bleak eyes. The gray color of his tunic doesn't catch McCoy's attention, until his gaze drops to its insignia, and he winces. Internal Security. The Eyes. _

'_Captain Kirk, you must come with me,' he states. The _Enterprise's _computer has more animation in its voice. _

'_Admiral,' Jim searches Lewton's face__. _

_The Admiral's expression is unreadable, but he nods. _

'_Let's go.'_

_Jim doesn't argue, doesn't glance at McCoy back once. He simply steps toward the Admiral and the Commander, as Lewton calls for a beam up. Just as they start to dematerialize, one of the guards announces, studying his tricorder, 'I've got Vulcan life signs, very faint. Two levels below.'_

_The words shake him out of his trance. 'Can't you beam him out of there?'_

'_Negative, Doctor, the warp core creates too much interference. We must cut through the bulkheads. All right, people, move!'_

_He follows them almost blindly, wondering vaguely how the guard knew who he was. He doesn't pay the slightest attention to his surroundings, only watches, numb with impatience and anxiety, how they cut through the layers of metallic compounds mercilessly. At long last, somebody shouts, 'We're through!' shortly followed by, 'Donna mia, I need a hand in here!'_

'_Let me through, I'm a doctor!' a shrill feminine voice reaches his ears. _

_He doesn't turn, just blocks her path effectively, snapping, 'So am I.'_

_Crawling in, he feels he doesn't have enough swear words to give the picture it's due. They need to pulverize the tiny chamber, before they could get to him. McCoy's eyes are glued to the tricorder, he requisitioned from the guard. Spock's reading__s barely register. _

_Finally, they manage to get him out, and now he's spread on the floor, cold and unresponsive. _

_He hears a whining of a medical scanner and glances up for the first time. A woman, mid-forties, attractive as hell, and equally forbidding. _

'_He's unresponsive,' she declares, shoving the scanner away__ and reaching for her medikit. _

'_What are you doing?'_

_She uploads a hypo. 'He needs tri-ox or his brain might suffer.'_

'_No!' he grabs her hand, holding a hypo. 'If you pump him with tri-ox now, he'll slip into coma! You have to give him a stimulant first, wind up his lungs, so that he wouldn't need tri-ox. Give me ten ccs of ferouline, now!'_

'_Ferouline?' she looks at him as if he's mad. 'Are you insane? That'll burn his heart out!'_

_Her scanner gives an alarming whistle, and McCoy loses control. _

'_Dammit, you idiot woman, this man's notorious for bringing upon himself all sorts of medical trouble, and I've been treating him for two and a half years! I know his system, I know what he can take! Now give me that hypo!'_

'_You have no authority here!'_

'_I'm his physician!'_

'_Giving him ferouline is crazy! He's a Vulcan, their systems can't–"_

'_He's half-Vulcan, and no one knows his blasted system better than I do, now hand over that hypo!'_

'_Do as he says, Marita.'_

_Admiral Lewton is standing at his elbow. Surreptitiously, he glances back, ready to see Jim, but the Admiral is alone. The woman continues to protest. _

'_But, sir–"_

'_Now.'_

_His hands are feverish, but not shaky, as he finally gives the motionless form before him a shot. _

'_Scanner.'_

_But she scans the Vulcan herself, her eyebrows rising slightly, as she utters in wonder, 'He's stabilizing.'_

'_Imagine my shock,' McCoy mumbles, watching with satisfaction, as Spock's chest begins to rise and fall in a steadier, stronger rhythm. __'Spock, you blasted hobgoblin. What on earth were you thinking?'_

'_Your emotionalism will not help him, Doctor,' Marita says. 'And don't touch him.'_

_He feels his rage overwhelmingly close. 'Admiral, if you want Spock to survive, you will get this woman out of here – now.'_

_But he doesn't watch what those two are up to anymore, his eyes are glued to the shockingly pale face below. Reaching blindly for the abandoned medikit, he takes out the cooling anesthetic gel and starts applying it over the wound. _

'_I won't let you die that easily, Spock,' he whispers. 'Remember Calliope? I swore then I won't let you die on my hands, and I won't. __Dammit, dammit, just for once I wish you wouldn't do that! Donating parts of your own body to the blasted machinery – only you could come up with something like that!' the Vulcan lies completely motionless under his ministrations and tirade, and McCoy feels despair gurgling in his throat. 'Oh, come _on_, Spock! Don't you wanna tell me I'm illogical? Just this once I need to hear you say that.'_

'_He can't hear you, Doctor. You're wasting your breath.'_

'_It's mine to waste!' he spits murderously. 'What do you know, you–" he stops abruptly, hearing a mild whisper. 'Spock?'_

_Is he hallucinating?_

_But no, this can't be. Spock's eyes are still closed, but his breathing has changed slightly, lips parted, as if he's trying to say something. _

'_Spock?' bending even lower to hear._

'_There is little point... in telling you... what you so obviously... already know.'_

_Admiral Lewton's placid face, as he stares down at them, holding his bulldoggish CMO firmly by the elbow._

McCoy blinked, returning to reality.

"Anyway, she's got her way in the end," he sighed. "They've taken him to the _Lexington_, and sent me here. I suppose she could have budged just a little."

"The Captain is there, though."

McCoy bristled impatiently. "He is, but I doubt he's seeing a lot of Spock, either. That is, if they let him out of the interrogation room at all."

"Interrogation room? Ye're not assuming they suspect him of something?"

The Doctor grimaced. "It's called deep debriefing. Standard procedure after any undercover mission. It's no fun, Scotty. Truth detectors, truth serums, endless questioning, plus he'd have to recount his story over and over again, while they monitor his reactions and wait for him to slip. I've seen that a couple of times back at Starfleet Medical. I would pay real money to not become even a witness again."

The image was distinctly disturbing, and Scott shifted reflexively in his chair, while McCoy took a large sip of his drink.

"But, he was ordered to do all those things, wasn't he?" he asked, confused and worried. "From what I gather, the lad had no choice."

"I still don't understand why he had to get quite so nasty with us, however," McCoy shook his head at the memory. "Especially with Spock. But I'm starting to feel there was more than simple necessity to maintain his legend. Jim would never have agreed to hurt Spock thus, to treat any of us this way, if he wasn't convinced he must," he emptied his glass in one gulp, his eyes becoming slightly glazed. "Well, maybe Jim's testimony will bring some light to that. Lewton did say he would send me extracts."

"Before the debriefing?" Scott felt his eyebrows climb up. "Why would he do that?"

"As a gesture of good will, I bet," McCoy snorted in disgust. "He apparently felt he had to give me something for taking Spock away, or I might just blow up."

The Engineer grinned wryly, imagining the picture. "He was somewhat apprehensive of yer temper."

McCoy frowned menacingly. "He ain't seen nothing yet. If that woman doesn't start talking tomorrow, I'll board that blasted ship."

"Well, don't look at me for support," Scott folded his arms across his chest, adopting a look of severity. "I haven't figured out how to deal with yer last prank yet. Ye know I'll have to submit a full report before we arrive. Better give me a good reason for beaming down to that station."

"The Captain's condition was my reason!" McCoy ruled out defiantly, then suddenly stammered. "I mean Captain Spock. Damn, this is becoming awkward."

A strange glimmer kindled in Scott's dark eyes, and the Doctor intercepted his look.

"What's so funny?"

"Well, isn't that ironic, Doctor? The _Enterprise_ has currently two official captains. And I'm still in command, as none of them are even on board."

McCoy sighed. "Looks like you bear it well. I, on the other hand, am out of favor with all three of you, and it takes some doing, so I guess I'm still in good shape. Spock's still alive, and that's about all we know of him. I wonder how Jim's coping."

"Aye," Scott seemed mildly amused by his assessment. He stood up. "Well, goodnight, Doctor."

"Try to get some rest," McCoy threw after him, his fatigue making his voice drawl more than usual. "You gonna need it."

--

The _Lexington_ was in some areas inferior to the _Enterprise_ and advanced in others. It had the same basic design, but, due to its specialization, suffered a lot of peculiar modifications and upgrades. The Observation Deck, however, looked roughly the same, and it was there where Jim Kirk had found his refuge after another unbearably long day.

After spending twelve hours in an uncomfortable chair against annoyingly bright lights, he took simple pleasure in standing in a common to every officer 'at ease' position in the semi-darkness, and staring at the stars as they passed.

He had so much on his mind, he found it difficult to think. After they had extracted the mind attack suppressor from his temple, he felt strangely vulnerable. He knew Lewton was taking care of every member of the Vipers he named, he knew that the spy aboard the _Enterprise_ had also been uncovered. He needn't be apprehensive of the mind sifter anymore. Yet, instead of relief he expected, he felt shockingly defenseless, far worse, in fact, than he would feel on a landing party to a newly discovered planet without a phaser. At least, the mission would end, sooner or later. He, however, would have to re-learn what it was to be without special protection. The risk was minimized. Still he felt uneasy.

The ships were currently in such formation that allowed him to see the _Enterprise_ from his viewing point.

God, she took a beating. Lewton had requested of Scott and then transferred to him full report on the ship's status. He was grateful that Scotty was optimistic regarding the refit, he'd learnt to trust his judgment. But huge black markings on the hull was no easy sight for him to see. He stared and stared at the ship, as if trying to slice through the hull to see what was happening inside. After months of being reserved to play a role, after weeks of playing devil's advocate, after numerous days without the familiar humming surrounding him, the friendly light atmosphere that he learnt to associate with his ship, he thought he could bear it no longer.

He wanted to go home.

Back home.

To Bones. And Spock.

They were probably together even now, discussing him, maybe? No, that would be presumptuous. He knew Spock too well. If he was in any condition, McCoy must be having constant trouble with keeping him in Sick Bay, when the ship so urgently needed his presence. Jim clenched his teeth tight, trying to push the persistent thought away. He didn't know what condition Spock was in. He was still incommunicado, and Lewton's assurances were not much. Unlike the reports on his ship's status, he gave only scarce news about the Vulcan's progress, maintaining that he was well taken care of. _And he wouldn't allow me to place just one call to McCoy to ask about Spock,_ he thought sourly. The only source of consolation for him was that if anyone could help Spock recover, it was Bones.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?"

He started, but didn't turn, seeing Lewton's image approaching him in the glass.

"She looked better."

Lewton came to stand at his side.

"You'll have her back in no time, Kirk. You performed exceptionally well. I will honor our agreement."

Kirk grimaced, but his tone was even.

"Our agreement did not include a certain field promotion, Admiral."

The Admiral chuckled softly.

"Your file is correct, you _are_ competitive. Even with your closest friends?" he glanced at Kirk sideways, but Jim didn't answer. "Somehow I don't believe Spock will cause you any trouble in re-assuming your captaincy. Cartwright practically forced him to accept that promotion. Did you know that he filed three petitions for Command to appoint a new captain?"

"Three petitions?"

"I believe he didn't have the time for more."

"Why would he resist it so much?" Kirk feigned bewilderment carefully. "Surely, he must know by now he's capable."

Lewton's eyebrows rose up slightly.

"Spock and I are of the same opinion here, Kirk. He is not designed for command."

"How do you know?" Kirk asked quietly.

"How indeed? Look at his latest actions. What's the first commandment of every starship captain? During a critical situation, his place is on the bridge. You know that. Your ship was faced with four hostile vessels, and what does Spock do? Leaves it at the first opportunity he gets."

Kirk frowned, unwilling to conceal his dissatisfaction with what he was hearing.

"He assessed the situation from all possible angles and made a correct decision," he stated somewhat heatedly. "Evened the odds as best he could. Took care of the civilians. As for his leaving the ship, he knew he was the best man for the job. And let's face it, Admiral, if it were anyone else in that reactor chamber, there would have been no K-7 station anymore."

"You don't know that," Lewton objected calmly. "And Spock certainly couldn't know it _before_ he beamed over."

"No, but he knew his crew. He knew he would have the best chance with an explosive of any kind. Critical situation is not a time for false modesty. And he knew that Commander Scott was an experienced commander and a good tactician."

"Then why didn't you go to take a nap every time the _Enterprise_ went to battle under your command, Kirk?"

"Circumstances were different, Admiral," Kirk suddenly turned to face him, a dangerous glimmer flooding his eyes. "That's not the issue here, is it? Spock did fine with the tactical scheme, our presence here and now proves it. A starship captain needs intellect, and a good grasp of strategy, but he can't do without leadership skills. Now, do you really believe he lacks them, Admiral? Do you want to tell me that four hundred men and women serving aboard that ship decided to follow _his_ orders – in defiance of Starfleet Command's standing orders – because he somehow tricked them into it? My people aren't that submissive, Admiral."

Lewton was conspicuously silent.

"They followed his lead because they trusted him. And they were right, weren't they?"

"I'm not certain that those twenty-seven who died in that battle would agree with you, Captain."

"Dammit, that's not fair, and you know it! Granted, those twenty-seven might probably still be alive, if Spock hadn't brought the _Enterprise_ here, but how many others would have died? How many, if the war ensued?"

"That's hypotheses, Kirk."

"Are they? I don't know yet what brilliant inspiration made him do it, but I'm pretty damn sure that, had it not been for him, we would have had over five thousand deaths and an open war with the Klingons on our hands right now."

He studied the face of his opponent, suddenly suspicious.

"You know what I think, Admiral? I think you know this as well as I do. You're damn right, I'm competitive, and I've known for a long time that Spock would have made a fine captain. The only thing he truly lacks is wish. He doesn't want it. You know all this too, don't you? I think you've only been insisting on his supposedly being unfit for command with one purpose only – to make him come work for you."

Lewton smiled tightly.

"Really, Captain Kirk. You're making me sound almost indecent."

"On the contrary, I'm paying a compliment to your taste. And your smart tactics, I'll grant you that. But you won't get him."

The Admiral was staring at him fixedly, but, apparently, the time for covert games was up.

"I think I will," he said simply, with gut-wrenching confidence. "The kind of tasks we would assign him is far more challenging and suited for someone of his intellectual capabilities, than anything a starship can provide. And as for personal relationships, Kirk, your rapport with him is ruined. After everything you've said to him, after everything you've done, I don't believe he'd want to be in the same room with you, unless absolutely necessary."

"_You ordered me to do it_," Kirk whispered, the raw pain in his voice making the words piercingly sharp. "_You ordered me to push him away_."

"I know," Lewton nodded calmly. "It was necessary. And I will even explain to him as much. But I doubt it would change anything between you. I'm sorry, Kirk."

He stepped around the frozen Captain, but stopped mid-stride to glance back at him, looking pensive.

"Actually, Kirk, that wasn't quite accurate. I'm not sorry about it. Not sorry at all."

It was long after he was gone, that Jim finally shifted, changing the position, he adopted to try and live out the ruthless attack of searing, burning agony that captured him tightly in its clutches. His lunges ached as he pulled in a portion of air. His mind was fighting desperately to resolve an inconsistency that threatened to tear it apart.

His mission might well have saved the Federation from a devastating war. But, from now on, everything he touched would taste bitter, even while shimmering in gold.

Because Spock would be at his side no longer.


	23. Debriefing

**A/N:** All right, back to that _Warning_ note for a moment, okay? Thank you.

**Chapter 22**

**Debriefing**

Sounds of chattering people, glasses clinking melodically as they touched, light jazz improvisation and an occasional chorus of cheers, told him that the reception had been mounting up nicely long before he stepped into the crowded lounge.

Kirk frowned, lingering on the threshold for a moment. It didn't feel right to have a celebration before everything was cleared up in a debriefing. But news traveled fast, and by the time they reached Starbase 23, a full heroes' welcome party was prepared by civilian authorities, while Starfleet preferred to look at it leniently. Lewton had agreed to participate, after having a short word with the station commandant. All senior officers were ordered to attend.

Suppressing another sigh, Kirk scanned the room quickly. He spotted Admiral Cartwright, watching over the gathering with a profound scowl on his face. Probably embarrassed about his own role in the events, Kirk mused. He heard a familiar laughter and turned his head to see Uhura, looking positively stunning in her dress red, talking animatedly with a handsome middle-aged man, also in red. He looked familiar, and Kirk had a persistent suspicion that he was the _Lexington's_ Communications Officer. Admiral Lewton was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a group of women, all wearing evening gowns and not uniforms, which precluded that they were indeed their civilian hosts. Judging from the look of polite reserve on the Admiral's face, he could think of a few better things to do with his time, though he was too much of a politician to ignore social duties. Kirk looked away quickly, unwilling to make eye contact. His feelings towards the Admiral were too much intermixed and potentially explosive to risk a casual interaction.

He turned instead to study the far side of the huge lounge, and that was when he noticed them. Spock, looking strangely unusual in dress gold, was talking quietly to McCoy, whose animated gestures transmitted his agitation clearly even across a distance. Kirk was moving towards them before he knew it, grabbing a glass of champagne automatically on his way, and making a quick sip, without feeling any taste.

They didn't see him approach, and he slowed slightly, collecting information.

"Doctor McCoy, I appreciate your professional concern, but I assure you it is completely unnecessary."

Spock's voice was cold, more remote than Jim remembered it. But McCoy was resilient.

"Like hell it is, Spock. This thing," he tugged unceremoniously at the end of Spock's silk jacket that was hanging quite loosely around him, "is big enough to put at least two of you in it. Tell me, did they feed you at all aboard the _Lexington_ during this whole week?"

_Aboard the Lexington? _Kirk's eyes widened. So, Spock was there all that time, and he never even knew. Lewton saw to it, no doubt.

"The _Lexington_ cuisine provided a variety of agreeable dishes."

Standing several feet away, Kirk smiled and shook his head slightly at the familiar way the Vulcan was evading an answer. McCoy, however, was not fooled.

"Did you _eat_ any of them? You do know they were provided for that purpose?"

Spock shot him a cold glance, killing the subject. The Doctor sighed gloomily.

"That won't do, Captain."

"Doctor, your concern, however commendable, is not–"

"Is not purely professional, Spock," McCoy cut him off resolutely. "You know that."

"That was not what I was going to say," the Vulcan objected.

"I know. Dammit, can't you unbend just a little? The week's been bad enough without you on board as it is."

"Mr. Scott performed admirably in my absence. The repairs–"

"To blazes with the repairs. The crew needs their Captain back."

Spock fixed him with an impassive stare, his eyes carefully hooded.

"The crew will get their Captain back very soon, Doctor. In my estimation, by fifteen hundred tomorrow."

Jim felt his heart picking up the pace, but he still didn't move, standing rooted to the spot. When McCoy finally spoke, his voice was distinctly quiet.

"The crew needs you back, too."

Spock didn't reply, and the Doctor pushed just a little harder, the expression in his eyes becoming haunted.

"Will they get you back as well by fifteen hundred tomorrow?"

Spock's head came up at last, as if he had finally settled on an answer, when he caught Kirk's gaze. His cheeks flushed, Kirk had nothing to do, but to pretend he had been in motion the whole time, walking towards them. He had crossed the remaining distance under their expectant gazes, a casual smile on his lips.

"Mr. Spock. Doctor."

"Hello, Jim," McCoy dropped flatly.

"Captain," Spock bent his head slightly in reply.

Kirk could physically feel him distancing himself, as if a number of impenetrable neutronium doors had just been closed, effectively separating him from Spock.

As he had no idea what to say, and his lips were beginning to ache from his forced smile, he decided for a social pleasantry.

"Enjoying the evening?"

That was probably the most stupid thing he could have come up with, and McCoy's glance told him as much.

"Not particularly," the Doctor grunted.

"I do not believe that the objective of this gathering was meant to be enjoyment," Spock remarked coolly.

"Official receptions rarely are meant for that, Mr. Spock," Kirk was hardly aware of what he was saying. His concentration was drifting. He tried to look at the Vulcan when he was talking to him, but instead of Spock, he was seeing a blurry image, a shape, without focus. He wondered briefly if a sip of champagne could do this to him. "However, it doesn't stop some of our crewmembers from having fun."

With a twinge of horror, he listened to his own voice; he sounded flamboyantly gay, almost rowdy, as if he couldn't possibly care about a thing in the world, apart from his own entertainment. The recent image of Uhura had probably triggered that particular remark, but McCoy's eyes were fixed on him, when he said,

"So it would seem."

An uneasy silence came upon them, while Kirk searched desperately for something – anything to say. He made another sip of his drink, gathering his scattering thoughts, trying to evade the growing awkwardness of the moment. He couldn't remember ever being this nervous. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth, without the slightest idea of what would come out of it, but Spock unexpectedly beat him to speech.

"Captain, I wish to congratulate you on the success of your mission," he intoned with polite detachment of a stranger. "Your efforts seem to have produced a most desirable result."

This wasn't happening. This couldn't possibly be real, that Spock would speak to him like they'd been introduced two minutes ago, not three years.

"Thanks, Spock," he replied, without thinking. "I couldn't have done it without you."

Even as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them instantly, almost before speaking, but not quickly enough. His eyes clearing, he raised them up to look at Spock in alarm, just as the Vulcan responded in his coldest, most forbidding tone.

"Indeed."

That was more than he could bear. He stepped forward.

"Spock, I–"

"Oh, Captain!" one of the civilians, a tiny woman dressed in bright silk, came over to their group. Her eyes were radiating excitement, as she fixed them on Spock; the glass of champagne she had in her hand was obviously not her first drink of the night. "That's where you've been hiding! It's not at all nice of you, you know?"

"You are captain of the _Enterprise_, aren't you?" her equally charming and equally tipsy companion smiled seductively at the Vulcan. "The hero of the hour?"

Not a nerve shifted in Spock's face, as he bowed to them with cool politeness.

"You are mistaken, Madame. This," he pointed unobtrusively at Kirk, "is the Captain of the _Enterprise_. I believe your other definition is most fitting as well."

"Really, I–" Blood sprang to Kirk's cheeks, as the mixture of embarrassment, anger and frustration made him choke the rest of his protest. The ladies turned their shiny eyes to him expectantly, and he realized there was no escape. He couldn't even find it within him to smile out of pure courtesy at them, as they advanced, chattering animatedly, and he backed away, without much success. His eyes met Spock's over their heads, but the Vulcan's gaze was opaque, betraying nothing.

Kirk stopped in his instinctive retreat, determined to get rid of the unasked admirers, and return his attention to the Vulcan. The next moment, Lewton appeared at Spock's elbow, looking calm and all-business.

"Mr. Spock, Ambassador Teanik requested information about the Quasavy Incident. You are well-versed in this area, are you not? Perhaps you could help me clarifying the situation?"

An eyebrow lifted up slightly.

"But surely, Admiral, there is no one with better credence regarding the matter than you."

Lewton didn't hesitate one moment, as if ready for this objection.

"There are, as you very well know, certain scientific issues involved, which I do not feel quite comfortable explaining."

"In that case, I am obliged to assist," Spock replied placidly. He turned back to the group for a moment and, speaking mostly to McCoy, amended, "If you will excuse me."

Being towed by the exuberant women towards the bar, Jim could only watch helplessly, how he easily fell into step with Lewton, who didn't even spare Kirk a glance.

Feeling insistent warm hands on his arm and shoulder, he was finally forced to take part in the conversation, feeling the headache closing up on him fast. The evening had been a disaster so far. He wondered if it could get any worse.

--

The night had progressed disastrously forward. He wasn't left alone, not for one minute, being ushered to play the hero, which he didn't feel one bit like doing. Finally, around midnight, he did manage to escape, pleading the early start tomorrow. He didn't feel like going to his quarters on the station, and he most certainly didn't plan on beaming to the _Enterprise_ to embrace even more hero's welcome. Instead, he retreated to a dimly lit, rarely visited bar at the other side of the general area. He was determined to get drunk to the point of amnesia. But, as the number of empty glasses multiplied on the table in front of him, he realized sourly that he wouldn't have his wish fulfilled. He could tell he wasn't sober. The trouble was, he wasn't drunk, either.

"Well, that seems like fairly more than your share," a dry voice commented above his ear.

Kirk didn't even look up, as McCoy observed the battery of the empty glasses gloomily, before sliding to a chair opposite him.

"Tough night?"

"You could say that."

"Jim, we've got that blasted debriefing at eight hundred sharp. What the hell are you doing drinking all this stuff?"

"I'll take a pill."

"A pill," McCoy snorted, scrutinizing him mercilessly. "A pill can't solve this for you."

There was no point in pretending not to understand. For all he cared, anyway.

"Nothing can solve this for me, Bones."

"Jesus, Jim. I never thought you're gonna be such a baby."

Kirk glanced at him warningly.

"Bones. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh really? Don't patronize me, Jim. I've seen the extracts of your interview."

Kirk winced. McCoy continued regardless.

"So did Spock."

The Captain stared at him heavily, and the Doctor relented, answering the unvoiced question, "We haven't discussed it. I just know he did."

Kirk rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"I wish you didn't see that."

"I'm glad we did. So my real question to you, Jim, is what the hell are you doing?"

"What do you mean? I'm not doing anything."

"That's exactly my point. You're not doing anything, just letting things slip out of your hands. Is it your guilt that's propelling this passivity? Are you trying to punish yourself?"

"I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"Of course, you do. You did what was necessary, Jim, but you don't trust us to understand it."

"_Do_ you understand it, Bones? Can you _really_ understand?"

"Yes," McCoy stated firmly, ignoring the look of surprise and disbelief on Kirk's face. "I might not be a Vulcan, but I have never lied to you. While I can't appreciate what you'd done, I can accept it as an obligation of the service and move on. I know it wasn't your choice, Jim, and I can only imagine how hard it has been on you. But now is not the time to let go. Your failure to act is playing right into Lewton's hands."

Kirk slammed the fist into the table with tired resoluteness. The empty glasses clinked in complaint.

"Dammit, Bones, what would you have me do? Challenge him to a duel over my First Officer? Imagine what Spock would say about that."

"He actually might like the idea."

Kirk stared at him. McCoy stared back.

"You are insane." Kirk concluded.

"No, I'm not, Jim. It's a little radical, I agree. Has it occurred to you to simply talk to him?"

"I didn't have a chance."

McCoy's eyes flashed dangerously.

"What do you mean, you didn't have a chance? You've spent a week aboard the same ship, couldn't you–"

"I didn't know he was on the _Lexington_, Bones. I thought he was on the _Enterprise_. With you."

"That old sly devil," McCoy deduced softly, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Well, that explains it. But, Jim, we've been on this Starbase for nearly thirty-six hours. You're out of the Eyes' cap. Couldn't you find the time? Come to think of it, you did find the time. You spoke with me, you spoke with Scotty. You talked to Uhura. For Pete's sake, Jim, you've found the time to talk to Christine and that security ensign, whose name I don't even know! Is Spock less worthy of at least a word?"

"If he wanted a word with me, he'd come to me for it," Kirk muttered, toying with one of the glasses.

McCoy straightened up, as if his chair had just given him an electrical jolt.

"Please tell me I didn't just hear you say that. I can't believe you really expected him to–"

Kirk sighed. "I didn't."

The Doctor remained silent, eying him, until Kirk finally had glanced up. The attack followed instantly.

"Has it occurred to you to think about Spock's wishes?"

"He couldn't possibly wish to stay around me after what I've done."

"Are you saying he's unintelligent?"

"Of course not."

"Then, why can't you accept the fact that he understands that what you had to do, you did because you thought it was best? Not to mention had been under orders. He can understand this and even accept. But you cut him with a sharp blade, Jim. He needs reassurance, now more than ever, that you didn't mean those things. That you want him at your side. That you're still his friend."

"Bones, I can't–"

"Why not? Imagine what it looks like from his perspective. You manipulated him so expertly; you pressed all the right buttons to create the right responses. I can tell you, when he realized just how well you knew him and how you used that knowledge, it really sent him into overdrive. Now he knows the reasons – the logical reasons for your actions, and it's not enough. Our logical Vulcan cannot live on logic alone. He would climb the walls if he heard me say this, but he really isn't that different from you and me. He needs a sign from you that you want everything back. Dammit, Jim, he needs to hear you're sorry, illogical or not, notwithstanding! But, instead of talking to him, reaching out, you play total indifference. You have all the opportunities, but you don't make a step toward him. What do you believe he thinks, logical mind like his?"

Kirk was silent, and McCoy pressed on.

"I'll tell you then. He thinks that, while your cruelty was necessary to protect him and the rest of us from a possible date with the mind sifter, you are indeed tired of him shadowing you and that you use this incident to sever your relationship, which he probably had misread in the first place. He thinks that you're politely telling him he's free to go. For all he knows, you might even want him out."

"God, Bones, no. Never."

"Then, for heaven's sake, tell him that! I'm not saying that one conversation would turn the time back, but it would be a start. While you hide your head in the sand because you're afraid to face Spock, Lewton is making a persuasive case. I've been watching him at it for quite some time, and I can tell you _I'm_ worried. He might not know Spock that well, but he sure knows how to tempt a Vulcan."

"You don't have to tell me that. The Admiral has made his intentions clear from the start."

"And you're all right with letting him have his way? Geez, Jim. I thought you hated losing."

"Dammit, Bones, Spock's not a prize in a goddamned competition! How do I know this isn't right for him? All I seem to do is hurt him, one way or the other. With Lewton, he would be a lot safer – and engaged in all sorts of fascinating activities the Intelligence might provide him with. What right do I have to make him stay?"

"He doesn't want to go," McCoy said simply. "Holy hell, Jim, what is wrong with you? Can't you see how insecure he feels? Don't let Lewton's be the only offer he gets."

Kirk closed his eyes, remembering Spock's set, determined face when he ordered him and McCoy to leave him with the bomb at K-7; and this evening, Spock appeared composed, cool, collected. His face was completely devoid of any expression at all times, his control was superb indeed.

"He doesn't look like someone who needs reassurance to me, Bones."

McCoy rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"And what did you expect to see, Jim? Did you think he would shatter to pieces in front of everyone? He almost did that already after he was forced to arrest you. I think he found it logical to improve his shielding since then. Lord knows, I would. And he is Spock, Jim. Control is his second nature. There were the times when you knew how to see through that. I can't believe you forgot."

"What makes you think he wants to stay?" Kirk asked dubiously.

McCoy sighed. "Jim, I told you I have suspected once before that Spock was about to – to commit suicide. Turned out, we misread him in the haze of our panic, he just wanted to resign. He wanted to resign, Jim. And then, he didn't anymore. Something happened. Do you know what it was?"

The question was rhetorical, but Kirk shook his head nonetheless.

"He realized, in this omnipotent mind of his, that you tricked him. That you were not a traitor. That thought alone made him change his mind. He still knew nothing, could be certain of nothing. But he had some hope – and he stayed. Now, you're a smart guy, Jim. What does it say about him?"

He watched Kirk's shoulders tremble and slump, as he covered his face with his hands. That admission of weakness was so uncharacteristic, even despite the booze, that the Doctor couldn't help, but feeling positively alarmed at the sight.

_Okay, we're one step from clinical depression_, McCoy mused grudgingly. _Come on, Jim. Snap out of it._

"I missed him so much, Bones," Kirk breathed out slowly, his hands still hiding his face. "Even while still on the _Enterprise_, I couldn't come close to him. I couldn't even touch him, I was so scared he would read my mind – my thoughts of the mission were always on the surface."

"Jim," McCoy's eyes were flooded with compassion. "It's all over now. You've beaten the Klingons. Mission accomplished. You can come back."

_To us._

Kirk's hands dropped, and he looked at McCoy directly. Naked, unguarded feelings splashing in his eyes, made the Doctor's mouth suddenly very dry, as he struggled to overcome his instinctive reaction. Kirk's lips parted, as he was about to speak, and the Doctor realized he must do anything, even knock him down, but not let him.

"Bones, I–"

"No, Jim," McCoy cut him off suddenly firmly. "Stop right there. Don't tell me anything you'll regret sharing in the morning. Over the past two months, you've been through hell, not to mention tonight's circus. And you're drunk even if you don't feel it." His voice softened, as he caught the expression on Kirk's face. "At any rate, if you're in the mood to trade confessions, Spock should be here, not me."

Kirk didn't say anything, but, in a short while, he blinked and looked away.

"Go to bed, Jim. It's going to be one hell of a morning; you need to clear your head. Come on, let me walk you to your quarters."

Kirk nodded submissively and stood up, but as the Doctor came to his side, he caught McCoy's arm and squeezed it tightly.

He wanted to say so much, but he didn't know how. Thank you for guarding my privacy for me? Thank you for not intruding? He couldn't formulate the correct phrase, and just stared into his friend's eyes helplessly.

McCoy smiled at him gently, and he suddenly realized there was no need to vocalize anything. Bones knew.

"Come on, Jim," he repeated tugging him onward. "You need to get some sleep."

The echo of their footsteps was the only sound bouncing off the walls of the empty corridors on their way to Kirk's quarters. McCoy made sure Jim had two glasses of water before he collapsed on the bunk. He placed another glass and a couple of pills at the nightstand, set the alarm-clock and left.

He knew he'd made a correct decision. He was grateful that Jim was able to summon enough reserve. McCoy knew his friend only too well. At this moment of deep personal honesty, while his inhibitions were lowered by alcohol and strain, he was vulnerable and open like any other Human. But, in a few hours, James T. Kirk, Captain of the USS _Enterprise_ would emerge again, full force. He would be ashamed of his utter weakness, no matter how justified, and he would have hated McCoy, had he let him go on with his midnight revelations.

No man should be caught off guard when he's this vulnerable, McCoy thought. No man should be taken advantage of in such a state. Least of all, the redoubtable James Kirk.

--

The morning had been fruitful enough, as he appeared to suffer no ill effects from the last night's activities, thanks to McCoy's timely help. His mind was clear and focused, and, as he gave his report in front of the Board, he had no trouble concentrating.

It was an admittedly closed session. The Board consisted of Lewton, Cartwright and Commodore Lee, the Starbase commander. Mr. Solange was also present, but merely as an observer. As for debriefed personnel, it consisted of Kirk, Spock, McCoy and Scott only. Due to the delicate nature of the mission and especially of what it revealed, it received the highest classified status. Even the record was being made automatically, rather than by an operator.

"Thank you, Captain Kirk," Cartwright told him, as he had finished recounting the events of his mission. "You may be seated."

"Request permission to address the Board," Kirk said suddenly.

Surprised, Cartwright nodded.

"I wish to pose a question to Admiral Lewton," Kirk announced, meeting the Admiral's opaque gaze. "With your permission, sir?"

"What is troubling you, Captain?" Lewton asked lamely, but Kirk was not fooled. He had expected this.

"Admiral, when we formulated the plan, we agreed that, after my arrest, I would be transported aboard the _Enterprise_ to the Starbase, where a prison break would be staged. Instead, you sent a Security shuttle for me, although it was clear that in doing so you would be endangering the lives of its crew. That attack was predictable."

"Indeed," Lewton was gazing upon him curiously. "What is your point, Captain?"

"I question your motives, sir. I am aware that any operation of this sort implies a risk, but those two guards need not have died."

Unperturbed, Lewton glanced at Cartwright, who grimaced, but nodded. The Intelligence Chief returned his attention to Kirk.

"They were not security guards, Captain," he explained leniently. "They were convicted criminals, who were offered a choice between fulfilling this assignment and going to rehabilitation for the memory wash."

Trained as he had recently become to expect any sort of outrageous deviousness, Kirk couldn't help but gape at Lewton. Behind him, McCoy made a stiffened noise.

"Are you telling me that you used this means to execute those people?"

"Kirk, we are not the Mob," Lewton waved a dismissive hand at him. "Those people were offered a choice and they volunteered. They knew the exact odds of staying alive. They preferred to take that risk, rather than have their memories wiped clean."

"But why? We had a perfectly prearranged plan?"

"We had to make changes. Really, Captain, you, of all people, should not underestimate the Klingons. A prison break would never have looked this convincing, and we couldn't afford a failure."

"That was your plan all along!" Kirk raised his voice, incensed. "You just didn't tell me, because you knew I would never have agreed!"

"Captain, your consent was predefined the day you took an oath to obey your superior officers," Lewton replied evenly, with a stray of cold. "And I do not believe you have the authority to question _me_ regarding the quantity of information that I choose to share with my operatives."

"Captain, this has gone far enough," Cartwright interrupted further protests. "If you do not wish to be held in contempt of this Board, I suggest you step down."

Very deliberately, Kirk turned around and unerringly found Spock's eyes. The Human's eyebrows creased, as he stared into the dark hooded gaze that seemed so impenetrable lately.

_Are these the people you wish to work for?_

Spock blinked and looked away. Silently, Kirk stepped to his chair and sat down.

"Mr. Spock, if you would take the stand, please?" Cartwright said.

Spock obeyed.

"The Board has familiarized themselves with the _Enterprise_ logs," the Chairman addressed him. "But there are certain discrepancies there. And the logs do not explain why you have taken the _Enterprise_ to K-7, when ordered otherwise. If you could fill us in on the circumstances, Captain?"

Clasping his hands behind his back, Spock began his report, consequent, informative, but not overloaded with unnecessary details. Kirk listened to him with rapt attention. He missed that calm even voice, relenting facts with unnatural precision. He missed the familiar pattern of logical premises falling harmoniously into conclusions. Spock had an uncanny ability 'to see the whole board,' even while presented with bits and pieces. The further he progressed in his account, the deeper Kirk dived into the familiar appreciation of cold reason that allowed tying things together, where there could possibly be no chance of that. He had always marveled at this power, and now his awe was overwhelming.

In several well chosen, blatantly revealing words, Spock outlined his reasoning for defying orders. He had formed a hypothesis based purely on logic. Lieutenant Renseb's actions had given him the tangible proof.

"Honest to God, Spock," Kirk whispered aloud, without knowing it, staring at the Vulcan mesmerized. "I _love_ your mind."

"Jim," McCoy's hushing voice shook him out of his reverie. The Doctor looked mildly amused.

At the Board, no one appeared to notice anything, but Spock paused mid-word, for a fraction of a second, almost imperceptibly, before continuing. McCoy's elbow nudged Kirk's ribs.

"Behave yourself, would you?" the Doctor whispered.

Kirk opened his mouth to retort, but, intercepting Cartwright's furious gaze, shut it quickly, shooting his friend a very speaking glance. McCoy's eyes were laughing.

"I assumed that one ship in the area would be better than none. Had we encountered no hostile forces, we would have retreated," Spock finished his report smoothly.

Cartwright cleared his throat.

"You do realize, Mr. Spock, what position you have put this Board in."

"Yes, sir," the Vulcan acknowledged coolly.

"By all accounts, you deserve the highest commendation, as well as Captain Kirk."

Spock shook his head, frowning slightly.

"Surely you understand you cannot commend me, sir. I have willingly and knowingly committed an act of insubordination. Whatever the result, you cannot disregard the fact that I have disobeyed your direct order. I will accept whatever disciplinary action you see fit."

Cartwright shot him a suffering look, but he did see Spock's point.

"Mr. Spock," the Admiral sighed. "You have indeed disobeyed a direct order from your superior officer. Officially, you are correct; I must take action. However," he hesitated, glancing at Kirk, before continuing, "I believe that deactivating your field promotion and reducing you back to the rank of Commander would be quite sufficient. What do you think?"

Something flickered in Spock's eyes, but only fleetingly. "I find this measure to be quite adequate, Admiral," he paused and added as an afterthought, "And on the personal account, I welcome your decision."

"It's a shame you don't want command, Spock," Cartwright shook his head slightly. "Captain Kirk had taught you well. He even managed to impress the possibility of defying orders to a Vulcan. That's quite an achievement."

Kirk sat bolt upright, and this time McCoy had to kick him hard to prevent from speaking.

"Captain Kirk is an excellent starship commander," Spock stated impassively in reply. "The years of my service with him have been beneficial."

"No doubt. Thank you, Mr. Spock, you may sit down. Mr. Scott?"

Kirk listened, with slightly detached interest, as first Scotty's and then McCoy's accounts added details to Spock's report. Once or twice, he lifted up his head to lock gazes with Admiral Lewton, who was, for once, scrutinizing not Spock, but him. Kirk tried to get rid of the persistent feeling of the menace he felt in this gaze.

Finally, everything was cleared. The _Enterprise_ officers, all except Spock for obvious reasons, received special citations. The matter was closed. They were free to resume their duties.

Everyone, even Cartwright, seemed to be glad to finally leave the room. Kirk hesitated, however, watching Spock approaching Lewton slowly. They spoke in low voices, and Kirk couldn't hear a word. The Admiral smiled at the Vulcan, as the latter stopped talking, and suddenly offered him a hand. Without hesitation, Spock shook it, and left.

Lewton, however, remained, as if waiting for Kirk to confront him. The Captain approached him warily, not liking the relaxed stance of the other man in the slightest.

"Mr. Spock seemed to be somewhat reserved in his praise," the Admiral remarked casually, an easy smile still playing on his lips. "You are not only an excellent starship commander, you are also a gifted politician."

Kirk raised his eyebrows, adopting the same easy manner.

"Hardly that, Admiral. But I do not part lightly with something I consider essential."

"Sometimes the choices, Captain, are made for us, whether we wish it or not."

"I do not believe you have the power to make this choice for me, Admiral. Or for Spock."

"He shook _my_ hand, Kirk," Lewton reminded him smoothly. "He didn't shake yours."

For the first time in days, Kirk felt he had an upper hand. His smile was genuine, as he regarded the over-confident Admiral.

"You don't understand Vulcans nearly as well as you think you do, Admiral," he said almost sympathetically. "Or maybe not all the Vulcans. Maybe just Spock."

Without waiting for a formal dismissal, he turned to go, feeling like singing. He was indeed going home.

--

--

A/N: Now, before those few, who are still with us, will stone me, let me just say that this was not the final chapter.


	24. The Aftereffects

**Chapter 23**

**The Aftereffects**

Christine looked around the crowded lounge uncertainly. She always felt a bit shy in huge public settings like the beautiful restaurant situated under the Starbase's dome. She was supposed to meet Uhura and the others, but her duties kept her aboard the _Enterprise_ for a bit longer than she expected, resulting in her arriving alone. She looked around nervously, trying to find familiar faces in the sea of relaxing people.

"Why, sweetheart, would you like me to buy you a drink?"

Startled, she turned around to see a young man in blue uniform, grinning at her. The scent of alcohol was detectable without much effort.

"No, thank you," she said, trying to disengage his arm, curled around her waist.

"I think you do," he murmured, pulling her even closer. "It's just not polite to say 'yes' at once."

"No, really, I–"

She hated to cause a scene, but he seemed to be insensitive to her objections. Suddenly, a pressure disappeared, as she was pushed free, perhaps a bit roughly.

"The lady does not want to go with you," Chekov told the man firmly.

Predictably, the latter didn't like the interruption.

"Get lost, Ensign," he hissed through gritted teeth.

Only then did Christine notice lieutenant's stripes on his sleeves. Chekov, however, appeared unperturbed. He was at least a head shorter and much thinner than his opponent, but equally determined.

"No ranks here," he pointed at the sign at the door. "So get lost yourself, sir."

"How dare you..."

Blood sprang into the Lieutenant's face, as he launched himself at Chekov. Christine gasped, but the _Enterprise's_ Navigator neatly stepped out of his way, catching his arm, and, using the momentum his attacker created threw him clearly to the floor. People, sitting at a nearby table, clapped and cheered. Chekov was watching the other man warily, but he still couldn't get up from the floor, too inebriated to resume an upright position.

"Nice move," Sulu said, coming from behind and patting Chekov on the shoulder. "Good to know you paid attention during my classes."

"He was too drunk to fight," Chekov replied in disgust, watching as the restaurant security lifted the unfortunate Lieutenant and carried him away. "I did nothing."

"You all right?" Sulu turned to Chapel. She nodded. "Let's get to our table then."

They took their seats at the lovely table in the corner, almost drowning in starlight.

"Where's Uhura?" Christine asked, perusing the menu.

"She's late, too," Sulu sighed.

"She'd better not wear that gold dress again," Chekov grunted, choosing drinks. "I don't want to fight the whole evening."

Sulu laughed, calling over the waiter.

"Don't worry, if she runs into any trouble, you won't be the one doing the fighting. She's quite capable... oh, there she is."

"Hi, everyone, sorry," she breathed out, joining them.

"She didn't wear _that_ dress," Sulu winked at Chekov.

"Thank goodness."

They made the order. The drinks were served almost momentarily. Sulu lifted up his glass, looking over at his friends.

"The _Enterprise_," he suggested confidently. "The finest starship in the fleet."

"The _Enterprise_," the others chorused.

"Well, it's been some mission," Uhura noted quietly. "I don't think we've ever been through such a mess before."

"I don't think it's the last time," Chekov predicted grimly. "Not with this Captain."

"Nor with this First Officer," Sulu grinned. "They really do match up, don't they?"

"They do. A match to keep us constantly in trouble."

"Now, now, Pasha," Uhura admonished him softly. "You did request to be positioned on the _Enterprise_, didn't you? What are you complaining about?"

"Pashka was made for complaining, Ny," Sulu remarked, nudging Chekov in the ribs. "He lives for it."

"Of course I don't," Chekov objected, but they could tell by the slight flush on his cheeks that he was pleased with their teasing. "I have another toast," he said suddenly, looking at Sulu. "To your first command."

It was Hikaru's turn to blush as they raised their glasses to honor him.

"It wasn't my first command really. They left me in charge of the _Enterprise_ before."

"But they never sent you to captain another starship, did they?" Uhura winked at him. "You know, I was really impressed with the way you handled that. It was amazing. It's as if I've known you for a long time, only I never really knew what you were capable of. You'd make a good captain one day."

"I still have a lot to learn," he replied quietly, though obviously flattered by her praise. "And you, Uhura. We wouldn't be here without you. I never thought anyone could beat you at taking aim, Chekov, but she probably could. She was like a... like a..."

"A Valkyrie," Chekov supplied, gazing upon her. "A maiden warrior."

"I was scared," Uhura confessed suddenly, glancing from one to the other. "It was awful. To be the one who's taken so many lives..."

"You were following orders," Sulu said sternly. "And thank God, you did follow them. It was battle, Ny. You didn't start it. You were only defending us."

"I know. But it doesn't make me feel any better."

"Maybe it shouldn't," Chapel said gravely.

They turned to look at her.

"You've been very quiet tonight," Sulu noted cautiously.

"I was thinking," she admitted. "This mission made me feel so... helpless. Useless."

"Useless?" Uhura's eyebrows shot up in dismay. "Chris, half the men on our boarding party owe you their lives. If it weren't for you–"

"I only kept them alive until Doctor M'Benga took over," she shook her head miserably.

"_Only_?" Sulu repeated incredulously. "Chris, you've created half a dozen miracles back there."

"I could do very little. I want to be able to do more," she looked at them, her eyes shining strangely. "I want to switch to the accelerated course. I want to become a doctor."

Chekov, Uhura and Sulu glanced at each other in amazement. Chekov whistled. Uhura smiled.

"Please, warn us when you'll be ready to announce that to Doctor McCoy. I think his blood pressure might just go through the roof."

Christine laughed softly. "I actually know of a person who's going to be more upset."

"Scotty," Uhura nodded. "Those midnight coffee rallies really got to him, didn't they?"

"Hey, I'm not leaving yet," she tried to reassure them, noticing regret in their expressions. "Not until the five-year mission ends, anyway. And then who knows."

"Yes, who knows," Uhura drawled pensively. "You know why I was late? I got a message from Jess."

"You're kidding!" Sulu exclaimed.

"What did she say?" Christine leaned in eagerly.

"She said it was the last message she could send; the interference would kill communications further. She looked good. Wouldn't shut up about the data she's been analyzing. She looked really excited about it."

"Did she and Vassant get married yet?" Christine asked, grinning.

Uhura met her gaze, suddenly serious.

"No. And she said they wouldn't."

"She changed her mind," Sulu stated. "I'm not surprised."

"I never knew what a beautiful girl like Jess found in him anyway," Chekov muttered.

"She said she realized it wouldn't work," Uhura explained. "So she called it off. But she finally agreed to let the doctor tell her the gender of her child."

"Well?" they held their breath.

"A boy!" Uhura smiled happily. "She looked so pleased and happy."

"A boy," Sulu intoned meaningfully. "And she's not getting married."

"Anyone want a bet on the child's name?" Chekov asked lamely.

"Chekov!" Uhura slapped his hand in reproach, but her eyes were laughing.

"I believe it means that she did find a way to take _a_ Spock into the Zentara system, when _Mr._ Spock wouldn't go," Sulu grinned, watching Christine blushing furiously. "Smart girl."

"She's incredible," Chapel shook her head in helpless admiration. "She made her choices and she made everyone respect them. And her."

"Do you think Mr. Spock knows?" Chekov asked cautiously.

"No," Uhura said. "She asked me not to tell him. But she did told me to give you all a hearty kiss, so come on over."

They stayed in the restaurant for the better part of the night, talking and relaxing, enjoying each other's company. But Christine found her mind wandering. Would she ever be as strong as Jess? Would she ever be able to invoke the same amount of respect? From her colleagues? _From him?_ From herself, for that matter. What was it that Jessica Quaint possessed that made her so bold and confident?

It was then, when she found Uhura leaning in closer to her and whispering in her ear.

"Chris? Jess asked me to tell you to get on with your life. She said it's the only way."

Chapel nodded and smiled at Uhura.

"Thank you, Nyota," she turned her face to the stars. "Thanks, Jess."

--

Two men stood side by side, gazing in silent admiration at the sparkling new intermix chamber.

"It's beautiful."

"Aye."

"Are you sure this design is fitting?"

"Fitting? Captain, it's the best ye can get in this quarter of the galaxy."

"So it's worthy of the _Enterprise_?"

"Absolutely. She's a beauty."

"Have you run tests on it yet?"

"Aye, this morning. Not a thing wrong. Runs smooth and steady. It's a perfect fit, Captain."

"I'm glad. How's your staff shaping up? Your new deputy?"

"Gabler? Aye, he's all right," Scott nodded. "Nothing of Mandy, of course, but he'll pass."

"I'm sorry about Ms. Mathewson, Scotty," Kirk rested a hand on the Engineer's shoulder. "This couldn't have been easy."

"Aye," Scott looked away. His hands gathered into fists, despite his will. "It's a darned shame they took the bloody bastard off the ship and into their lab. I'd like to snap his neck with me own hands."

Kirk's grip tensed on his shoulder, before he let go.

"Maybe it's for the best, Scotty. Vengeance does not become you. Besides, I wouldn't want to lose you to a court-martial."

"It wouldda be worth it."

The Captain shifted uncomfortably, looking away for a moment.

"Are you saying we're clear to go then?" he changed the topic, sounding cheerful again, if a bit artificial. "All the other upgrades in place?"

"Aye. Mr. Spock and I have scheduled some more tests, but all in all, it's fine to go, Captain."

"Scotty, you wouldn't happen to know where Mr. Spock is, would you?" Kirk asked cautiously, staring at the floor. "I was hoping to have a word with him, but he's not on the Bridge, nor in his quarters."

Scott looked at his slightly flushed face shrewdly, suppressing a sigh. The Captain's thinking had been only too obvious.

"Well, he was here coupla hours ago, helped me tuning this beauty. I think he might be in Stellar Cartography, sir. One of the sensor arrays was damaged, and the repairing crews didn't get to it yet. Mr. Spock did mention he might wanna take a look at it."

Kirk met his gaze gratefully.

"Thank you, Scotty. I'll talk to you later then."

"Aye, sir," Scott nodded thoughtfully, watching him go. "Good luck, Captain," he muttered as an afterthought.

He had recently discovered that the _Enterprise_ had to endure a considerably lesser amount of total havoc when her command team was playing at the same side, rather than against each other.

--

He took the turbolift up to the Observation Deck, and walked past the observation lounge determinedly. But, as he was closing in on the Stellar Cartography, his pace slowed, just as his pulse accelerated. Summoning all his years of training, he put on a composed, calm face and walked in.

Back in his science blue, Spock was sitting on his knees in the far corner of the room, bent over a half-assembled array, working on a piece of circuitry. Alerted by the sound of the opening door, he looked up and moved to get to his feet, but Kirk's raised hand stopped him.

"As you were, Mr. Spock," he said, coming to a halt at the other end of the apparatus, some good two meters away. "I merely wanted to check on your progress."

Spock slid back to his position on the floor, his attention once again focused on his work.

"I should be finished in another two hours thirty-four minutes, sir," he replied. "I estimate the array's efficiency increase twelve point five percent. I trust you will find its condition satisfactory, sir."

"I don't doubt it," Kirk nodded, with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

The silence stretched indefinitely, but it was hardly the same companionable silence the two of them had shared so often in the past. Kirk shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Spock glanced up at him again.

"Is there anything you require, Captain?"

Cold. Polite. Distinctly respective.

Foreign.

"Yes." Two could play this game. "Your report on the ship's status."

An eyebrow went up half an inch.

"I have submitted a full report for your review approximately two hours ago, sir. Did it not reach you?"

"No, no, it did reach me, Commander," – _'How not, you put a copy on my desk, a copy to my Bridge terminal, plus gave one to my Yeoman.'_ – "But I – I didn't have the time to look it through yet, and I was wondering if you could name the bullet points for me, to save the time."

"Very well, sir," Spock did rise up then, assuming his usual stance, with hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes fixed on a point right above the Captain's shoulder. "The repairs in the main Engine Room are complete. Mr. Scott had requested and received two new dylithium crystals, which have been installed this morning. We also have an additional set, which is locked safely in Auxiliary Control. The propulsion systems are yet to be refined, currently operating at seventy-two percent. The calibrating process is scheduled to begin at zero-six hundred tomorrow. The main phaser array had been fully rebuilt and is now–"

"Spock, I'm sorry."

A beat. Another one. Then, even his heart fell silent. He thought if he listened carefully enough, he could hear the busy buzz of the Bridge two decks below.

Spock's eyes shut for a fraction of a second, before opening again. A barely detectable motion.

"The – the main phaser array is fully operational, though the upgrades are still in need of testing. Mr. Scott and I are planning on running simulations as soon as–"

"Don't. Please."

Spock's hooded eyes met his briefly.

"You did request a report, Captain."

"Yes, I did. And now I don't want to hear it. Illogical of me, isn't it? To say – or do – one thing, when desiring completely another."

"Such inconsistency of mind might be dangerous for a commander," Spock noted coolly.

"It's even more dangerous for a man. But sometimes it's predetermined against his will."

"Yes, sometimes it is. And since the responsibility lies with someone else, the common human approach, I believe, is 'to relax and enjoy the ride'."

Ouch. Was he just slapped?

"You think I enjoyed this ride, Spock? You think I was happy giving up responsibility?"

"I cannot answer these questions, Captain. My perception of human emotions is often erroneous. Perhaps Doctor McCoy would be better suited to give you a satisfactory reply."

Ice. Another block of ice in what appeared to be an already impressive wall. Dammit, give me a chance, Spock.

"I don't need McCoy's expertise here, Spock, and neither do you. You know me too well."

It was excruciating to maintain eye contact, for Spock's gaze turned from cold to frosty. Stinging.

"I believe, sir, that you are flattering me to possess the knowledge that has never been mine."

Wasn't this pain supposed to be figurative? He had never experienced this amount of physical suffering, invoked by mere words. His heart was suddenly a stranger in his own body; tight like a fist, firm like a stone, it was bumping mercilessly in his chest, beating it purposefully from the inside, as if intending to make a hole.

Something must have shown on his face, for he suddenly found Spock standing very close, looking at him with a pale shadow of detached concern.

"Are you well, Captain?" his aloof and efficient Science Officer was ever present. "You exhibit signs of physical distress."

"Distress," Kirk suddenly laughed softly and took a few steps away, shaking his head. "You have a gift for understatement, Mr. Spock."

"Is there anything I can do to alleviate your condition, sir?"

Kirk glanced at him sharply.

"Why would you want to do that?"

"It is my duty as the First Officer to see to the wellbeing of the Captain."

Kirk nodded, still watching him intently.

"I'll take it. Beggars can't be choosers. There is indeed something you can do to help me, Commander."

"What is that, sir?"

"Forgive me."

"Sir?"

"Forgive me, Mr. Spock. For the pain, you will deny you felt. For the disappointment. For the loss of confidence in me and perhaps in yourself. For the terrible things, I made you believe about us. For lying that I didn't want you at my side at all times, when in fact your presence was the only thing that kept me sane over the years," his voice broke, and the last words came as a whisper. "Forgive me for not finding any other way."

Spock was silent for an unbearably long moment, and when Kirk finally found the strength to look at him, it was just as he feared. The ice wall was nearly complete. Several bricks would suffice to make it whole.

"Captain, it is most illogical of you to ask forgiveness where no trespasses have taken place. I cannot object to the actions that quite probably saved my life. I cannot forgive you, sir, for there is nothing to forgive."

It sounded like a sentence. There was nothing of the person he knew in this cold arrogant stranger.

"As a matter of fact, I am grateful to you, Captain," Spock continued nonchalantly. "This situation revealed to me how imperfect my Vulcan discipline was. No true Vulcan should have allowed to be manipulated so by his emotions. I now know how much harder I still have to labor to achieve the required level of self-control."

"Is this really necessary, Spock?" Kirk asked quietly. "I... cherished you, just the way you are."

"Your actions do hold excessive evidence to that avail, sir."

Kirk blanched as the implication hit him.

"Spock, I didn't mean it like that."

Spock's face softened slightly, as his lips transformed into a ghost of a lenient smile.

"Captain, as a Human, you cannot understand the importance we, Vulcans, place in control. It is the basis of our existence. The easy way, in which you–"

"Used you."

"–took control over my own actions from me was – unnerving. While _your_ actions were justified, _my_ lack of control is unacceptable. You cannot understand."

"I can't, Mr. Spock?" Kirk's eyes turned dark brown, lips tensed into thin lines. "Are you certain? I can tell you that when you hijacked the _Enterprise_ to take Captain Pike to Talos IV, the _easy way_ in which you seized control of my ship was pretty unnerving too."

Spock looked at him in alarm, his shoulders stiffening again with renewed tension. Kirk suddenly was faced with a distinct vision of a crack in a smooth wall. He tried to control his excitement.

"Spock, you must know by now what my ship means to me. This vessel is more than a sum of priceless equipment and extraordinary men and women who operate it. This vessel is my life. You know some of my background; you know what my childhood and youth were like. This ship is a token, a symbol of achievement, of pulling through from total disaster to the dearest dream. While I'm in command of this ship, I'm in command of my life. I'm in control. Yet you," he shrugged with a helpless smile on his face, "you took that control away from me so _easily_. And would have done it again."

"I had to help Captain Pike," Spock said very quietly. "I explained my reasoning to you."

"Yes, you did, but only _after_ the damage was done. What was it you said? I asked why you didn't tell me, and you said, 'And ask you to face the death penalty, too?' You were protecting me. Spock. You lied to me, to this crew, to Command. You disobeyed orders, you betrayed Starfleet."

"And you."

"And me. You have no idea, how much you hurt me with that action. I knew no other life than that on the Bridge of my ship, yet, you snap your fingers and it's gone – and no one is able to stop you. And it wouldn't hurt so much if it was done by some pirate, or some other officer I never even knew. But you, Spock, you, whom I trusted so implicitly, you were the last person I would expect to do this to me."

Spock was watching him transfixed, and Kirk suddenly chuckled.

"You know what the worst of it was? I couldn't take control back from you. You _gave_ it back. You _returned_ it to me when you saw fit. Can you imagine how humiliating that was?"

"Captain, I... I ask forgiveness."

Looking squarely into the troubled dark eyes, Kirk shot, with a hint of mean triumph,

"Nothing to forgive, Mr. Spock."

Spock flinched and dropped his gaze to the floor.

"Does it still sound right to you now?" Kirk snapped with grim satisfaction. "Will you still insist that I can't understand what it feels like? Being betrayed for my own good by my closest friend?"

"Indeed, you... you were correct to take similar action," Spock admitted, still examining the floor, concentrating on taking his quickened breathing under control.

"Correct?" Kirk repeated, incensed. "Spock, you believe I did it in revenge?"

The Vulcan shook his head, somehow managing to transmit despair, while having his face down.

"No, Captain. I have tried to tell you, over and over again, that your apology is illogical. It is I, who is in the wrong here, not you. I am but an officer under your command. Who am I to question your methods? What right do I have to object?"

In three swift steps, Kirk crossed the distance between them, grabbed Spock's shoulders and shook him gently, trying to meet his eyes.

"Don't ever say that! You have the right, Spock! You're not just an officer to me, dammit! You have _every_ right to object to my methods, to hate them, to hate me for what I've done to you! Everything you feel, I feel too. When Lewton first suggested it, I thought I couldn't do it. When I _was_ doing it, I thought it would kill me. I loathed myself for every word I said to you, for everything I did!"

He suddenly caught the expression on Spock's face, and dropped his hands instantly, stepping back.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. "Spock, I didn't bring up Talos IV to make you feel guilty. What you did and what I did is hardly in the same weight category, I know. You didn't denounce our friendship as if it never happened. But you've been on the other side of this dilemma too, Spock. Can't you find it within you to understand?"

Spock was silent for a long while, standing rigidly where Kirk had left him, staring at the wall. The Captain watched him in painful expectation, biting his lips to prevent another flow of impassioned words to attack the sensitive being before him. Spock made several steps across the room, before turning back to face Kirk.

"Captain, what you say is logical, and I can indeed see your point."

_Careful. Breathe out. Breathe in. _

"But?"

"I... am unsure, if... if my logic is not failing me again. There is a part of me that trusts you implicitly. It always has. It is pushing me, even now, to acknowledge your words for a fact. But you have proven that you do know me very well. That you are capable of interacting with this part of me directly, using it as a fifth column against the logic of my conscious mind. I cannot deny who I am, Captain. I can no longer follow my emotional side blindly, as I did before when it came to you. I cannot help but ask if I am hearing what I want to hear. If I am allowing myself to be deluded yet again. If it is a wise thing to do."

Kirk closed his eyes, unable to watch the bottomless, profound doubt that haunted Spock's gaze, once so confident, so sure. He was the reason it was there. He had to try and reach him, before it turned permanent, breaking him.

"Spock, when I took this assignment, Admiral Lewton and I had a deal. Whatever happened to me, the _Enterprise_ should have been left in your hands at all times. No other captain, no other officer. I could not – would not entrust her to anyone, but you."

Their eyes locked and held for a long moment, until Spock finally nodded his understanding of the implication and looked away. He didn't say anything.

It was total and complete defeat, Kirk realized. This person, who became closer to him than anyone in the universe, would never trust him again. All that was left to him now was to accept this. Unless...

"Spock, we have known each other for about three years now."

"Two point seven years, to be exact, Captain."

"Fine, two point seven. In any relationship, more than enough time to realize if it's been only chemistry that kept two people together."

Spock lifted an eyebrow, but refrained from commenting.

"If this mess didn't happen, Spock," Kirk went on a bit uncertainly, "it would have been about time for us to take our friendship to the next level."

"The next level, Captain?"

Kirk met his gaze calmly.

"You did ask that of me once, and I turned you down. But we were both under orders then, Spock. You were ordered to use any means to investigate, and I couldn't let you find out the truth at all costs. But what did not happen then, can happen now. It is the only request I will ever make of you."

"Captain," Spock looked mildly confused. "I am not certain I understand the nature of your request."

"Spock, I know that after everything I've put you through you quite probably wouldn't ever want to touch me... much less touch my mind."

Spock paled visibly, but his gaze never wavered.

"Captain, are you suggesting a mind-meld?"

Kirk nodded.

"There's been enough words said between us already. They can take us no further."

The Vulcan looked hesitant.

"Spock, I need to... if there's any way that I can show you, prove to you that I am sincere... Wouldn't you want that? I could not deceive you in my mind."

"It is not deception I am worried about, Captain. You are not trained in mind techniques. You might find the experience disconcerting."

"You have touched my mind before."

"Never as deeply."

"Spock, I'm not afraid. I want this."

"You do not understand, Captain. You will not be able to hide anything within a deep meld. Melds with non-telepathic species are oftentimes unpredictable. I may not be able to respect your privacy, however hard I might try."

"Then don't try, Spock. I don't want you to respect my privacy. I want you to see it all, so that if you decide not to continue our friendship you will at least get the full justification for your decision."

"Captain, I–"

"Please, Spock. Do this one last thing for me, and if you decide to go, I will never ask you for anything again."

The air between them was so heavily charged with emotions, it felt thick enough to cut. With great effort, Kirk made himself let go of his own tight control and remain completely open, as he refused to turn away from Spock's intent stare.

Finally, the Vulcan shifted, somehow broadcasting consent. Kirk felt a hot wave of hope and gratitude washing over him, as he watched Spock warming his hands in a familiar fashion. He stepped closer, lifting his face up to Spock, blatantly defenseless. Spock's gaze was suddenly hypnotizing, drawing, it was almost impossible to resist its powerful pull. Soft warm fingers on his face stopped him in his motion. The contact sent shivers running down his spine; the hair on the back of his neck tickled with electricity.

"Relax, Jim," Spock said softly. "There is nothing to fear."

The world faded, washing away any awareness of his surroundings, replacing it with the living, charged darkness.

His last conscious thought was, _Will he catch me if I fall?_

--

_An old roundabout. Grass growing through the cracks in the pavement. Summer heat is rising from the ground, crinkling up around his bare feet and ankles. There's a girl, an ice-cream cornet in her hand. She watches him curiously, then smiles. Her lips are purple with cream. You want some?_

'_Jim.'_

_He flinches, the vision dissipates rapidly. _

'_Spock?'_

'_Yes. Do not be alarmed.'_

'_This is strange. I have no body. Yet, only just I... and now...'_

'_You are floating. It is a normal reaction to a meld.'_

'_I'll take your word for it.'_

_He felt a wide stream of unmasked amusement whirling around him._

'_What's so funny?'_

'_Your mind is... so like a child's, Jim.'_

'_Excuse me?'_

'_I meant no offence, Captain. But there are distinctive differences. Human children do not think in words. They think in images. As they grow up, they lose this ability. You have not. This is wondrous.'_

'_Human children, Spock?'_

'_Vulcans are taught to verbalize images very early.'_

'_You're upset about it. __Spock?'_

'_Yes?'_

'_You had trouble converting, didn't you? And you still miss it.' _

_A sigh. _

'_It is a ... compelling way of expression.'_

'_Then, can I do this for you?'_

_Warm summer rain on his face. The sound of laughter. He laughs because he's happy, for no other reason. The fire, singing in the fireplace. He's wrapped in a thick wooden blanket. A mug of hot chocolate in his hands. Sweet, spicy. He's staring at the chess set, trying to solve another problem. He sees the solution. Triumph. His fingers caress the smooth shape of the piece. Checkmate. Wind, whistling in his ears, as his skis are carrying him faster and faster, adrenaline __making his eyes shine. A face full of snow, and he laughs yet again. Soft warm fur under his hand, as the old cat is watching him with an inherited arrogance and leniency of his kind. A magnificent view at his feet. Happy pain in his muscles, as he had just finished his ascent. He feels so free. _

'_Jim. Jim. Come back.'_

'_Did you like it, Spock? It was all for you.'_

'_It was most fascinating. Thank you.'_

'_Wait till I take you sailing.'_

'_Jim, much as I enjoyed it, we came here for a specific purpose. You will soon grow weary.'_

'_Yes, yes, you're right. But I don't know what to do, Spock.'_

_Another bolt of amusement. _

'_You do not have to do anything, Jim. If you trust me–'_

'_! ! !'_

'_Then, let go.'_

_He suddenly found himself being... held? Carefully, as if he was made of glass. Tightly, as if in a neutronium lock. And then, they began to slide together back in time, through the events, and words, and feelings, and actions. _

'_Fascinating. You were so obvious.'_

'_I had to push you so hard, Spock. We were running out of time, and you still didn't take any action.'_

'_You provoked me.'_

'_I had to make sure you could stand up to me. And make sure the others would follow.'_

'_It was not easy.'_

'_No, Spock. In more ways than one.__ Can you feel my pain, Spock? Can you see what it did to me?'_

_He was being released._

'_Spock, what are you doing?'_

'_I am preparing to break the meld. You objective is fulfilled, I trust?'_

'_You will not allow me to look at what you felt?'_

_An impression of profound alarm. _

'_It would not be wise, Captain.'_

'_I need to know. What is that, Spock? A wall? A barrier? Please, let me in.'_

'_No, Jim. I cannot allow you to move past that... barrier.'_

'_You don't trust me still?'_

'_There is danger in this action, Captain. It is enough for me to feel that you are willing. But it is not safe.'_

'_Risk is our business, Mr. Spock.'_

_He jumped off the cliff._

'_No, Jim!'_

_He felt he was being incinerated alive. It was like diving into a volcano crater. Each receptor received shock after shock. Pain, overwhelming, burning, searing, surrounded him, every inch of him, making him think about the physical torture caused by the ice worm almost longingly. It hurt so much, it was inconceivable that anyone could carry as much pain in him and survive... Can't breathe, can't move, can't... anything. His mind was on fire, devoured bit by bit, his own guilt strangling him, burning like acid. _

_I made him go through this, live with this, day after day... _

_Through the haze of tremors, he realized Spock was still somehow, unbelievably, shielding him. _

'_Stop it!' Jim yelled at him. 'Stop protecting me! I deserved it!'_

'_Jim, you can't endure it for much longer!'_

'_You could! I made you go through this! Let me go, Spock!'_

'_No!'_

_But, with one powerful surge, he managed to free himself from Spock's protective net, and..._

_He knew no more._

--

The awareness came back slowly. His eyes were itching as if covered with emery, his head spinning slightly, an echo of the collision with something hard. He blinked, trying to get used to light.

"Welcome back, Jim."

The voice rang a bit too loudly for his liking.

"Bo – Bones," he managed hoarsely. "What happened?"

"You pulled a damned foolish stunt – that's what happened," the Doctor replied grumpily.

"Spock!" Kirk remembered suddenly, abruptly coming to his senses. "The meld–"

"Yes, the meld," McCoy nodded, steadying him. "I'd knock the lights out of his thick pointy-eared head, if I didn't know it was your idea. And a damn stupid one at that."

"I needed to know, Bones," Kirk said, sitting up with difficulty.

"Well, you sure as hell know how to impress a Vulcan. I've never seen Spock looking like that, not even during the last two months. He was shocked that you would willingly do this to yourself. But you just can't give up, can you?"

"Where's he?"

"On the Bridge," McCoy grunted. "Where else? He scared the hell outta me when he brought you in here. You looked like hell."

"Is he all right?"

"Well, now that you mention it, I think he looked a little pale, but mostly I believe from worrying about you. He said you broke through every shield he summoned and felt the whole strength of his bare emotions. Judging from the fact that it nearly burnt your brain out, I believe I should reconsider calling him cold-blooded again."

"Indeed."

They both turned to the door, where Spock was standing, arms folded, watching the Captain warily.

"I felt you awakening, Captain. How are you feeling?"

Kirk grinned at him somewhat shyly. "Like I fell into a mountain river. Sore. But I'll be fine."

"What do you mean – you felt him awakening?" McCoy asked curiously.

"The aftereffects of the meld, Doctor," Spock explained, coming to stand at the bed's railing. "The awareness will dissipate within the next several hours."

"Yes," Jim looked up at him, mesmerized. "Yes, I can feel you, too. You're – nervous, Spock?"

McCoy snorted. "I could have told you that without a meld."

The Vulcan nodded slowly. "I was... apprehensive of the effects on you, Captain. What you did was–"

"Idiotic." McCoy supplied.

"Unwise," Spock said, throwing a sharp glance at the Doctor. "And dangerous."

"I know," Jim sighed. He looked into the once again guarded dark eyes intently. "Spock. How _could_ you have endured so much? How?"

Spock shook his head softly.

"Jim, you have experienced a month worthy of emotions in several seconds. It was not so bad."

"You're lying." It was not a question.

"I am not, Jim. I have training to deal with emotions of this intensity. You do not. Your sympathy is not necessary." Jim stiffened, and Spock added quickly. "But not unwelcome."

Kirk smiled a bit ruefully, and reached for Spock's hand instinctively. Then, realizing what he was about to do, he dropped his hand and looked away.

"I'm sorry, Spock."

Spock's eyes traveled from Kirk's face to the monitor above his head, as if he suddenly found something extremely fascinating in the readings. _But, at least, he didn't say I have nothing to be sorry for_, Kirk mused. _It's a start_.

McCoy was observing the Vulcan's reaction closely.

"Spock, I still don't like your coloring. If it weren't for your usual lack of good manners, I'd be really worried. Are you sure you're all right?"

The Vulcan met his questioning gaze and inclined his head ever so slightly, accepting the offer.

"The lack of good manners has never been a problem with you, in my experience, Doctor," he replied, taking the cue. "However, I am fine. Captain," he looked back at Kirk, who managed to regain control over his emotions. "I have come to inform you that we have just received new orders from Starfleet Command. We are to investigate the planet Sigma Iotia II, last visited by USS _Horizon_ approximately one hundred years ago. We are presently on course towards it at warp two."

"I see," Kirk straightened up with enthusiasm about the new mission. "I've heard of the Iotians, Spock, but I don't suppose a full briefing would hurt."

"I have already taken the liberty to organize one, sir."

Kirk's smile broadened.

"Why, Mr. Spock. If I didn't know better, I'd say you can read my mind."

Spock cocked an eyebrow at him, but when McCoy caught his gaze briefly, he could have sworn, the Vulcan was in good spirits.

"If there is nothing else, Captain, I shall return to the Bridge."

"Of course, Mr. Spock. I will join you there shortly."

"Oh no, you won't," McCoy's hand pushed him roughly back to the bed. "You will stay here for at least a couple of hours and let me run some tests on you."

"It seems like your schedule is set, Captain," Spock remarked placidly. "If you will excuse me."

"Spock?" Kirk called after him, catching him in the doorway. The Vulcan turned to look at him quizzically. "I really missed our chess games. I know you are busy, but if you could find an hour sometime tonight...?"

McCoy rolled his eyes in exasperation. Jim sounded uncertain, like a teenager inviting his first ever crush on a date. God, he even blushed to make the picture complete. The Doctor shot a quick glance at Spock, but the Vulcan's face remained unreadable.

"Very well, Captain. I am free after nineteen hundred. Would you like to meet in the Officers' Mess?"

Daring greatly, the conversation in the Transporter Room still all too clear in his mind, Kirk shook his head.

"How about my quarters, Mr. Spock? I don't think I'll be able to concentrate with the level of noise in the Mess."

Spock was silent, just watching him, for such a long time, that McCoy thought he wouldn't ever answer. At long last, he uttered, "That would be acceptable, sir."

He turned, a bit too abruptly, and walked out, leaving the bewildered Doctor with a happily grinning Jim Kirk for a riddle.

"I'll be damned," McCoy sighed, adjusting his equipment. "That green-blooded pointy-eared hobgoblin has a larger heart than half the people I know," he looked at Kirk very seriously. "You don't deserve him."

Kirk leaned into the pillow tiredly.

"No," he agreed. "But I need him. And you. I'm a damn lucky man, Bones, to have both of you at my side."

Looking down, McCoy smiled at him, with a mixture of understanding and acknowledgement.

"How do you feel, Jim?"

Kirk stared at the ceiling, searching for an answer. His eyes glinted with silent content as he found one.

"Home, Bones. I feel like I have come home."

--

--

End of Part 3

The End

--

--

A/N: Dear everyone, who had enough patience to read it through. Thank you! It's been one hell of a ride.

A.


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